


Come Dine With Me: Trost Edition

by The_Ereri_Fairy



Category: Come Dine With Me (UK), Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, Cookery competition, Erwin is a producer, Levi is a cameraman, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Ereri_Fairy/pseuds/The_Ereri_Fairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This week on ‘Come Dine With Me’ we join competitors Eren Yeager, Hange Zoë, Jean Kirstein and Historia Reiss. All think they can pull off the perfect dinner party, but only one can win the £1000. </p><p>Recently appointed producer, Erwin Smith, is uncannily good at stirring the drama. The more sparks flying across the dinner table, the better the ratings, after all. If only his camera team were as ruthless as him: Petra keeps trying to show everyone’s best side and Mike is only good for filming the food. </p><p>Erwin is used to Levi being the dependable one; he has the right sort of patience for filming. But this week his star cameraman is distracted... and Erwin suspects the cause is none other than the first-night contestant!</p><p>Note: There is a mix of ‘script’ style and traditional narration. The Come Dine with Me UK narrator features in both and will always be in bold. The narrator is famous for scathing and sarcastic comments. He is like an omniscient presence who makes fun of each contestant. No one is immune!</p><p>The rest of the story is mostly from Levi’s POV. </p><p>Let me know what you think. :P  </p><p>(now rated mature mainly to cover Eren's stories as a 999 call handler)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contestants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The narrator introduces this week's contestants. What are Hange, Jean and Historia's first impressions of Eren's menu?

**Come Dine with Me – Trost Edition**

**This week we join competitors Eren Yeager, Hange Zoe, Jean Kirstein and Historia Reiss. All think they can pull off the perfect dinner party and will score the others in secret. But only one can host their way to victory and take home the £1000!**

**There can be no better backdrop for this showdown than the historic city of Trost; a city famous for its legendary battles. Words will fly and cutlery will clash as our contestants put their cooking and hosting skills to the test.**

**Who can handle the heat? Who will raise their white tablecloth in surrender?**

**Let’s meet the contestants!**

**Perhaps our youngest contestant, Eren Yeager will take the grand. Only 18, the self confessed people-pleaser could have what it takes to pull off the perfect evening. Don't let that daydreamer expression fool you; as a 999 call operator Eren is no stranger to working under pressure.**

**Eren:** _(smiling softly and fiddling with the sleeves of his baggy jumper)_ Sure _._ I would like to win, but more than anything I want us to have a fun night. It doesn’t matter to me that they’re a bunch of strangers because I usually get along with new people. As long as no one treats me like a child just because of my age, we’ll get along great!

If there’s one thing I’m worried about it is that someone is really fussy about things like where their wine comes from. I'm a bit clueless there. It all tastes the same to me!

**Uh-oh, Eren might be in trouble with our next contestant, 24 year old betting shop owner, Jean Kirstein, who certainly knows his Sauvignons from his Chardonnays.**

**Jean:** _(cracking his knuckles and exuding confidence)_ I’ll be brutally honest; I’m in this to win it. They’ll know the game’s over when they see my wine cellar. I'll be serving a 1972 Regent _(putting two fingers to his lips and kissing them)_ \- like music for the tongue – and a sure winner. Just like the rest of my fine dining experience. Plus I know how to charm _anyone_. Just you watch. I’ll have them eating out of my hands by the end of the night.

**Jean sure has a strange idea of what makes for a ‘fine dining experience’.**

**Jean:** Oh, not literally, of course. That would be gross. My worst nightmare would be if one of the guests has no manners. I'm putting a hell of a lot of effort into this so my guests want to act sophisticated. Or else. _(his brown eyes narrow threateningly)_.

**Oookay. Crossing off Jean's place as a possible venue for my next wild night out. _  
_**

**Meanwhile, _sophisticated_ certainly isn’t a word you would use to describe our third contestant, 32 year old pharmacist and self-taught ‘food artist’, Hange Zo _ë_.**

**Hange:** _(tapping, then drumming her fingers on the armrest, deep in thought)_ Ooh... what's my inspiration, you ask? Ohh... I can only name one? Just _one_! (practically bouncing from the seat) Alright! It would have to be Heston Blumenthal. I can’t tell you how happy I was the first time I tried using liquid nitrogen to make ice cream! Except now that’s pretty tame for me. I plan to tantalise my guest’s every sense. If they never forget it, I’ve done my job right!

**Let no one accuse Hange Zo _ë_ of lacking in ambition - cough - or eccentricity.  Let’s just hope Hange’s night is memorable for all the right reasons. Our final contestant, 22 year old, Historia Reiss is taking a more traditional approach to her night. **

**Historia:** _(smiling sweetly)_ I love working at the local garden centre and have grown my own fruit and vegetables for as long as I can remember. I don’t think you can beat the freshness of home grown so I plan to show my guests what you can do with quality ingredients and a trusted recipe. Plus my friends are always requesting their favourites. So I either have really lazy friends or my food's not half bad. _(she winks)_

**We'll find out on the final night whether Historia's homely food hits the spot.**

**Okay. So now we’ve met the contestants.**

**First up to the plate is 18 year old Eren. He is aiming for top marks with a ‘school dinners’ theme. Surely not the wisest choice for someone who is worried about being judged for his age!**

**What do the others make of young Eren’s menu?  
**

**_Menu_ **

 

 **_Starter:_ ** _Packed Lunch_

 **_Main:_ ** _Teacher’s Hotpot with Herby Dumplings_

 **_Dessert:_ ** _Eton Messier_

_**Dress code:** School Dinners_

 

**First thoughts, Jean? Dare I ask... _  
_**

**Jean:** This person must just be here for a laugh. No one can honestly think they can win with this! Does packed lunch mean we should bring our own food? Might do anyway from the look of this menu. I mean, what’s an _Eton Messier_? Not sure I even want to know...

**We're all going to find out tonight. Will Hange have a less damning report?**

**Hange:** Haaah. I like this guy’s style. I’m guessing it’s a guy. Oh! I can’t decide whether to go as a lollipop lady or... or... OH, _I know_. This is going to be great! Except for the dumplings that is. They’re always so gummy and _eugh_. With any luck he has a pet I can discreetly feed it to or something.

**Oh dear. Tonight's host doesn't have a four-legged companion so Hange will have to find another way to deal with Eren's dreaded dumplings. Does Historia have a bone to pick too?**

**Historia:** Hmm. The main course sounds homely but strawberries aren’t in season. If they’re using autumn berries for the Eton mess then that’ll be nice. It’s a bit of a mysterious menu, really. Ooh, I’m quite excited to meet them now. It should be a fun night!

**So, it's a mixed review for Eren's menu. Can our host pass his school themed night with flying colours, or will he fail to make the grade?**

**Let's find out!**


	2. The First Night: Simply Dashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the first night of the Come Dine With Me competition in Trost.
> 
> The narrator observes Eren's cooking while camera man Levi finds himself distracted by the young contestant.
> 
> Thoughts and criticism much appreciated. <3

**The First Night: Simply Dashing**

**_Menu_ **

**_Starter:_ ** _Packed Lunch_

 **_Main:_ ** _Teacher’s Hotpot with Herby Dumplings_

 **_Dessert:_ ** _Eton Messier_

_**Dress code:** School Dinners_

**We’re kicking off the week with 999 call operator, Eren Yeager.**

_(Eren beams straught into the camera. He stands at the stove wearing comfortable, baggy clothes and a white apron, already stained with mustard among other things.)_

**Our youngest contestant hopes his school dinners themed evening will score him top of the class. Will his ‘packed lunch’ starter of sausage roll, Scotch egg and a selection of chutneys have his guests asking for seconds?**

**He is bravely making the mix for his sausage rolls and Scotch eggs from scratch.**

_(Eren stuffs sausage meat mix in the blender and switches it on to the highest setting. The blender trembles and churns dramatically. Chunks of sausagemeat fly straight out of the funnel.)_

**Uhoh. We have a runaway blender!**

**Eren:** _(horror dawning on his face)_ No... no! NO!

**EREN! Do something!**

**Eren:** _(flailing for the machine and getting spattered with mixture)_ DAMN YOU, STOP! _(He grabs the blender with both hands and jabs the switch to a lower setting, finally taming the machine)_

**Phew. I was getting worried there.**

 

 **Eren:** _(breathless)_ It's... okay. I've... saved it. One mistake. I am not about to give up because I made one mistake.

**Are you telling that to me or yourself? Although I will point out that it's not too late to buy back-up savouries.**

Eren: ( _appearing in a fresh apron)_ Hah. Might've been a better idea to make something simpler. But I really want to suprrise my guests. After reading my menu, they’re probably expecting my starter to be a squished sandwich in foil, maybe a packet of space raiders on the side and a sugary fizzy drink to wash it all down. _(he grins into the camera)_ If I was doing this whole school thing properly, that’s what I _would_ be serving. But I think my guests will much prefer this.

_(He switches off the blender and scoops out a handful of seasoned sausage meat. It squelches satisfyingly. He hums absently as he rolls it out.)_

**Hrrmm. Perhaps you should have stuck with sandwiches after all.**

**Eren will use the cat food – my apologies! – _sausage meat_ , for both his Scotch eggs and sausage rolls, which will be wrapped in _shop brought_ puff pastry. Tut tut. What _would_ your cookery teacher say? At least Eren isn’t copping out when it comes to his condiments. Not a plastic bottle in sight as our host is whipping up a selection of homemade chutneys all served in dainty little jars. **

_(Eren snaps elastic bands around a circles of gingham paper and ties ribbon around jars of hot mustard and onion chutney)_

**Eren** : I think that looks alright?

**Smashing! If you’re out there, Eren’s design and technology teacher, top job with this one.**

**Meanwhile, Eren’s beef hotpot has been simmering on a low heat for almost two hours.**

_(He lifts the lid off the slow cooker, blinking through the steam and appearing pleasantly surprised.)_

**Eren:** It’s looking good! _(He dips his index finger for a taste.)_

**Eugh! Really!?**

**Eren:** Tastes good too! Just like my mother used to make it. _(He licks gravy from his finger, slurping happily.)_

**If only she taught you how to use a spoon, too.**

**Eren:** Yep. There’s no way that my guests won’t enjoy this. Aaand of course, it wouldn’t be a school dinner without this! _(He produces a packet of Smash from the cupboard above.)_

**Who knew you could still buy this stuff? I thought Smash was as dead as the turkey twizzler. _(Low and sincere)_ Rest in peace, turkey twizzlers.**

**Eren:** _(He rips open the packet and mixes with a flask with boiling water.)_ Heh... yep. This takes me right back. Don’t worry, it’ll stop looking like PVA glue in a minute.

**No one can accuse our host of lacking commitment to his theme. But is this getting a little _too_ authentic?**

**Eren:** _(smiling deviously)_ Hah! Bet I almost had you. I’ll be serving proper mash as well, of course.

**Thank the culinary gods.**

 

**Next on Eren’s to do list is the mysteriously named Eton Messier. But we’ll have to wait for later to see how Eren is tweaking this classic dessert. With his meringues already made, our host has just enough time to get suitably attired.**

 

* * *

I’ve been working on this shitty show for what feels like the longest 3 months of my life.

At least with _Dancing on Ice_ I didn’t have to deal with the targets of my filming most of the time, let alone share breathing space with the contestants. Oh, and don’t get me going on the state of some of these bathrooms.

Disgusting.

Seriously, there should be a law about minimum standards of hygiene. Last week the show nutter bragged about his houseboat having a toilet and went into the glamorous ins and outs of shitting in the river. The guy looked surprised when I refused to shake his hand.

Fortunately, that sort of interaction is a rare exception. Contestants generally leave me be, which suits me just fine. In fact, I actively encourage a healthy professional distance and have mastered the art of becoming invisible. Or at least going mostly unnoticed behind whichever bulky camera I happen to be operating.

Everything about my appearance, from the crisp undercut to the sturdy black boots, is designed for this exact purpose. And as much as Petra whines that just looking at me is depressing (as if anything could depress that ray of sunshine) nothing can convince me to adopt something flashier, like the gaudy suits Erwin likes to strut about in.

Perhaps now that I look as unapproachable as I truly am, perhaps I won’t get fired from this gig. Here’s to wishful thinking.

 

It’s not that I lack ability. In fact I pride myself on first class camerawork and Erwin knows he can trust me to capture all the shitty contestants have to offer. No, it’s more that the world of TV entertainment is littered with landmines ready to explode at the slightest _faux pas_. And when I _do_ somehow offend with some shitty ‘celebrity’ I’ve never heard of, or am the source of a complaint five pages long, my refusal to stoop to fake smiles and gushing apologies earns me a one-way ticket to the firing line. Every time.

But not _this_ time.

As brutally soul-sucking as filming for _Come Dine With Me_ can be, I can’t let this gig turn into another _Dancing on Ice_. My prodigy of a younger sister Mikasa is all too keen to remind me that this is my ‘very last chance’ with the studio, or ‘god so help me, Levi, you’ll send me to an early grave.’

 

Heck, if that actually happened I’m sure Mikasa would still berate me from the afterlife:

_Sort your life out, Levi. I can’t be here to do it forever! And for both our sakes, find someone to remind you to function as a human. Oh, and stop complaining about your new job. The job I recommended you for. If you hate working in TV so much, why don’t you find something else?_

 

It’s a fair question. Truth is, I fell headfirst into camerawork and haven’t pursued anything else _because I’m damn good at it_ (the filming part anyway.)

Mikasa meanwhile has real passion and drive which has seen her rocket into middle management. The higher ups at the studio don’t know how lucky they are to have my sister as assistant entertainment co-ordinator; her keen instincts and steely determination help keep bums in seats as millions tune in to their trashy shows. Not that I'm really in a position to critisise. I _film_ one of the trashy shows.

Anyway, my efforts not to get fired these last three months are so far proving effective. It’s undoubtedly helped by the fact that contestants are usually too self-absorbed to realise there are actual people behind the fancy filming equipment. I may also have my colleague, Petra to thank for limiting the time I have to spend with contestants outside of filming. She has this uncanny ability of filtering out the crap and absorbing only the pleasant aspects of people. A quality that means that woman will talk to _anyone_.

 

My other colleague Mike shares my disregard for contestants. But at least he has a fascination with food to keep him occupied. Erwin is content to give him free reign of the kitchen, utilising Petra to interview contestants and myself to film the majority of house shots and take the most important position at the foot of the dining table when the evening kicks off. Currently I am going about the living room shots with usual disinterest while Erwin energetically grills the first night’s host.

In this titchy two-floor apartment (at least its not filthy) I’m left with time to spare before it's time to film the contestant’s transformation from almost adult into snotty school brat. _School dinners_. What a shit theme. Right up there with 'last night on the Titanic'. Like that one wasn't destined to fail...

 

I was barely paying attention when Erwin introduced us all to the host earlier, so it comes as a surprise when I cast my lens over the 17 year old to discover evidence of a well defined figure. I suspect a toned stomach too, but it’s hard to tell with the contestant's unflattering choice of baggy jumper and jeans.

It’s when I light upon the contestant’s face that things really get interesting. Because, yes he's young... but damn if this brat isn't easy viewing.

A few minutes later and I'm done with the room shots. I usually hate this part of the evening, having nothing much left to do before the guests arrive and no inclination to chat with Petra or join Mike for a smoke. But tonight I find an easy way to occupy my time.  Discreetly zooming in on the downright gorgeous young man from my corner in his front room.

It can't be called stalking. Not when in a few hours time I'll be earning my living following the movement of those lips. Not to mention catching the action of that tongue which unconsciously flicks against his bottom as he considers a response to whatever intrusive question Erwin is trying to play off as friendliness.

And then there's those eyes. Stunning green, quick and responsive, every now and then a little obscured by his messy brown hair. Delicious despite its unruliness... or perhaps because of it. The urge to interrupt my producer and attack the host with a comb is making my fingers itch. A feeling made worse every time he absently runs his fingers through the lustrous locks, placing his hands neatly back on his knees each time he is done.

 

I’m already more enamoured than I’m ready to admit. There's nothing else to do, so I listen in.

"Eren." Erwin sighs, rubbing circlies into his forehead with his large knuckles. "Eren, Eren, _Eren_. You can tell me."

"Alright. There was this one time..."

Despite obvious nerves, the host's smile looks genuine and his eyes rarely leave Erwin’s melting pot of expressions, each of which are exaggerated by way of his dramatic eyebrows. Erwin dresses the part too. Currently in a dark plumb button shirt and tight-ish black trousers. Oh and boots. Always black laced boots shined to a perfect polish.

Right now he is leaning forward in a cheap chair, feigning rapt interest in the host's experience as a 999 call handler. Of course, he wants to know all about his worst experiences, the most embarassing call, any time he got in trouble.

The scruffy haired brunette is now chatting animatedly away to him while I swing the camera lens toward a bookshelf. Erwin is bound to notice and give me a whole other level of grilling if he notices me peering at the contestant for any length of time.

So I pan along the shelf consisting largely of nature books and random knick-knacks. I’m impressed by the apparent lack of dust and am resisting the temptation to go over and swipe a cloth over the book spines.

However, I’m less impressed to hear the contestant continue spilling his guts, falling for every one of Erwin’s toothy smiles. The brunette doesn’t even suspect that the producer's intentions are far from honest.

"So, this guy told me he was in agony and couldn't get to hospital. But wouldn't tell me _why_."

"Go on."

"Yeah. So once I'd established there was nothing immedietly life threatening - no injury, bleeding, breathing problems - I was starting to get pissed, thinking this was some half-baked prank."

"But it wasn't?"

"Oh, no. When I told the guy for the fifth time that we can't send an ambulance without knowing what's wrong, he finally told me what happened..."

"You can't stop there!"

"He... uhm. Inserted a..."

"Yes?"

" _Buzz lightyear action figure_... in his back...uhm... passage and-"

"-there's more?" Erwin looks like a rich kid on Christmas morning.

"He accidentally activated the wings when it was still inside!"

Erwin bursts into hysterics and it is a full minute before he gets anything out. All while the contestant squirms in the chair, eyes darting around as if seeking escape and finding me. He looks surprised to see me unaffected by his story when Erwin can't breathe for laughing. He offers me a shrug accompanied by an apologetic smile, presumably apologising for Erwin's sorry state. I return the gesture with a shrug of my own and a deadpan expression. The meaning is clear. Like I give a damn.

I return to fiddling with the dials of my camera. But something is off. I glance up to find the brunette inexplicably staring at me. I shoot him a glare and the brat has the good sense to return his attention to Erwin, who has finally composed himself.

Erwin fills his lungs with a huge breath. " Eren. I have one thing to say to that." His sly smirk and bright eyes is a warning that he is about to say something he thinks is clever. "To infinity and _beyond_!" he declares dramatically, sending Eren into a fit of giggles.

 

He really loosens up after that. All I can do is watch as Eren reveals details of the most embarassing calls, including things he really shouldn't have said or done and really shouldn't be admitting to Mr Erwin Smith.

I’ve seen it plenty of times before. It shouldn’t bother me after 3 months of working under the determined blonde who will do just about anything for the sake of ratings. As Erwin would say, “If they’ve watched the show then they’ll know what’s coming to them.” Part of me agrees. But it doesn’t change the fact that Petra still deals with numerous complaints each series from contestants who are unhappy with how they were presented in the final cut.

And now as usual, Erwin is panning for gold with this young contestant... or rather, _dirt_. He’s primed to snatch up any juicy tit-bit which he can go over with the snarky narrator later. All this to make the host look as bad, stupid or sexy as possible. Whichever Erwin thinks will best work with the group dynamics.

Personally, I think this contestant, _Eren_ , is destined to be the show’s loveable idiot. Cruel as this sounds, its likely unavoidable purely because he is the youngest. How easy to present such an innocent-looking teen as the one who appears to know nothing and the others don’t consider to be competition.

The contestant’s certainly not doing himself any favours. I mean, what other answer to the question, “So what’s _the_ most embarrassing situation you’ve been put in at work?” is there then “Fuck am I telling you that.” Instead, the brunette’s going into detail about another call from a man with his member stuck in the filtration of a hotel swimming pool. _At 2am_ and having to stay on the line to try and convince a security guard who found him not to kill the freak.

Of course, this isn’t enough for Erwin. What he really wants is something on the contestant. And if this innocent-appearing Eren does have a dirty secret (they usually do) then Erwin could play him off as a weirdo (although from the looks of the contestant crib sheet, tomorrow night’s host Hange Zo _ë_ looks like she was born to wear that particular label.)

 

Still, if the brunette _does_ have any evidence of a weird fetish, or anything personally embarrassing then Erwin will uncover the truth of it and make sure for the guests to ‘accidently’ rediscover it later. If he has no luck with his thinly-veiled digging, then he might with actual digging in the form of Mike ransacking the bedroom cupboards and drawers.

Sure, Mike will complain about being dragged out of the kitchen but does it anyway. Erwin knows better than to ask me to sniff out dirt (not that sort, anyway.) It’s a small blessing that he generally leaves me to it, knowing that I will deliver the footage he needs.

However, ransacking the contestant’s bedrooms is one of the things that my colleague Petra wrinkles her nose at and refuses outright to participate in. She has this nauseating habit of seeing the best in people. To the point that every now and again she goes berserk at Erwin after seeing an episode where a person who is actually ‘really nice’ is presented as the show bigot or something.

It’s hard to believe that in the 3 months I have been working on this crappy production that Petra is still on the team. Even before the battle commander that is Erwin replace the far more laid back and perpetually stoned producer, Petra was always the odd one out in that she actually cares about the contestants.

Maybe she only stays because she realises how much worse it will be if it’s just me and Mike, who give about a single shit between us when it comes to Erwin’s antics.

 

I am grateful to see that Erwin is finally finished with the contestant, who I notice is slightly flushed from the ordeal. The older man shakes his hand firmly and wishes him luck for tonight before slapping his thighs and rising from the creaky chair.

The second that Erwin turns away from the brunette, his face falls into a thin frown, then screws up as if there’s a bad smell in the room. He twiddles two long fingers at me in an impression of two legs walking. I know the gesture well. It means _damn,_ _this one’s a_ _goodie two-shoes_. In other words, it means that Erwin has obtained nothing particularly juicy from the first contestant and doesn’t think he is likely to. Good. Some people who apply for this show are refreshingly normal.

Glancing at this contestant downing a mug of tea which is probably the wrong side of lukewarm, I’m as sure as Erwin that there’s no dirt to be found on this one.

He will still send Mike snooping of course. The producer is not a man to leave a stone unturned or drawer unsearched. He excuses himself to the contestant to drag Mike’s head from out of the contestant’s spice cupboard. Their combined footsteps are almost thunderous on the narrow, wooden staircase.

 

Petra’s busy interviewing the other contestants on their hopes and expectations for the competition, or something equally as dull. So it’s just us. I adjust my lens as casually as possible in his direction for better viewing.

The contestant crib sheets Erwin handed about to the team say that this he’s 18. But I would have guessed younger, perhaps even younger than the 16 years minimum required for this show, even if that's impossible.Either way, the brunette is definitely more brat than adult. 

That means I should really find something else to do other than look at him.

 

* * *

 

I tried, alright?

 

It’s all the brat's fault. His decision to drape one leg casually over arm of the faux leather chair is offering an exciting new view to explore.

The brat’s jeans are baggy and only stay in place because of a tatty belt. His green t shirt also looks at least one size too big and is half tucked in on one side. It irks me to no end.

When he brushes strands of messy brown hair from his eyes, I observe that they are a crisp green. And to my horror, staring right at me.

The brat practically drops the empty mug on the glass table (at least he uses a coaster) and heads my way, walking on the balls of his feet like he’s got energy to spare. Maybe it’s the nerves.

What’s not clear is why he’s strutting over here in the first place. Or why my throat suddenly feels tight. I press a glass of water to my lips, relishing in the coolness. The glass is almost empty by the time the brat arrives before my camera equipment.

Hemmed into a corner by my own equipment, the brat is forced to stop a few feet away. I make no effort to move into a more sociable position. But neither do I bark at him that I’m busy, as I’ve not hesitated to do before in such a situation.

 

As mentioned, I pride myself on being invisible. The fact that I’m _not_ should bother me more than it is right now. Right now, all I can focus on are the brat’s bright green eyes which are even more spectacular close up, and the warmth of his smile.

I am suddenly grateful for the bulk of the camera between us.

 

“Levi, right? Got any advice for tonight?” he asks, face tilted like that of a puppy. “See...I think talking to Erwin just made it more real.” He chuckles lightly and I take another swallow of water. “I’m thinking about getting out something stronger than tea, but that’s got to be a bad idea.”

If only I didn’t have to answer. Looking at this brat through a lens has nothing on viewing up-close. My eyes follow the gentle bobbing of his adam’s apple while he speaks, sweep over the curve of his lips. I try my best to avoid those emerald eyes which I decide are far too distracting.

But it’s no use. When I finally look into those bright orbs, they are waiting for me expectantly.

 _Shit._ But supportive advice isn’t my forte.

I’ve got nothing. _Le rien._ _Pas du tout._

I’ve got no grain of wisdom. No snarky remark like I might usually consider. I can’t even bring up the motivation to tell him to go and ask Petra. She’ll have the warm looks and kind words this brat is looking for... unless...

“Be yourself?” The words come out like I haven’t spoken in a week, but at least they _do_ come out. My throat feels uncomfortably tight again when the brat’s face opens into a dazzling smile.

“Sure! I can do that.” Well, he looks more comfortable at least. Perhaps the two words I just stole from Petra have done the trick. I shouldn’t be surprised really. ‘Be yourself’ is something which Petra tells contestants all the time. Except she delivers the advice in her lively songbird voice rather than a pathetic croak.

What must this young man think of me?

More than I deserve, apparently. Although he doesn't know that I basically stole Petra's best line.

The brat thanks me as if I’ve imparted a piece of valuable wisdom, but if I was kinder I would give him far more honest advice: _Kick us all out of your home and get the hell on with your life._ Except that’s the sort of thing which will get me fired... _again_.

I won’t lie. This Eren doesn’t seem so bad as far as brats go. But telling him what I truly think isn’t worth another depressing spiral into unemployment. Mikasa has already said that this is the last time she can recommend me into a position. My sister has her own reputation in the studio to maintain, after all.

Still, I might take a leaf from Petra’s book and try to help this brat through the shittier points that this week will undoubtedly bring. As long as Erwin doesn’t find out. I don’t think I could stand the ridicule after maintaining my reputation for utter disinterest when it comes to contestants.

 

* * *

 

As I wait for the brat to get changed I remember his theme: _school dinners..._ and hold hope that this means the brunette will return downstairs in something a little less baggy. I occupy the time until then by taking some shots of the ready-laid dining table.

The chairs are the inexpensive folding type made more bearable with cushions. It is when I take a shot from above that I notice one of the wine glasses doesn’t match the rest.

It’s the sort of thing that some of the other contestants are bound to pick up on, and which could make the brat look like a dumb ass in the final edits.

With nothing else to do, I root around in the kitchen cupboards until I locate the glassware.

 _Bingo._ I twirl the glass between my fingers. It’s a perfect match with the others. I swap it for the odd glass on the table and feel instantly better for it.

Because I prefer things to be orderly. Yes, it must be that.

 

* * *

 

  
“How do I look?” the brat asks, catching me off guard with a twirl. Now that we are both standing and with no camera between us, I am painfully aware that even this 17 year old has a few inches on me.

Although I can’t really feel too sour given what Eren has returned downstairs in. I’m not sure if I’m regretting my wish for the brat to return downstairs in something a little more fitted, because it’s all that and _more_.

“Simply dashing.” I regret the words the moment they leave my lips.

 _Who says ‘dashing’ anymore?_ Not to mention that the honorific is more suited to describing a fitted tuxedo, not the schoolboy outfit which the host is wearing!

I may have just come across as a pervert, but assure you that I am _not_ that sort of person. Yet... it is hard done to put into words how delicious this contestant looks.

Eren has decided to play to the fact he is the youngest of the group by hosting a school themed dinner party. I am not yet convinced on whether this is witty or suicidal, but have no complaints when this is the result.

Eren wears a white button up shirt with the top three buttons undone. If I have any criticism, it is that undoing the third button would expose the _perfect_ amount of neck.

The school shirt is mostly tucked into very _fitted_ black trousers. They’re a close cousin to leggings. Either way, they aren’t what the brat wore to school. Unless he went to dance or drama school.

An image pops into my head of this tousle haired brunette on an icy stage. The spotlight blazes to reveal Eren in skin tight white leggings and a silky vest embedded with emerald diamantes to bring out his eyes, which are artfully shadowed. The brat is even taller in skates, but graceful and energetic in his movement. Keeping up with the camera lens is a welcome challenge as I chase Eren’s lithe form across the ice.

This is by far the most productive my imagination has been in ages. I blame my recent work on the _Dancing on Ice_ show for all this. It is just too easy to imagine Eren leaping with those slim yet powerful legs or spinning gracefully with outstretched arms. All accompanied by a starry smile. Yes... the exact smile that Eren is affording me right now. Just for saying he looks dashing. Which remember, only makes me sound like a creep when directed at a young man dressed as a school boy.

“Dashing,” Eren muses gleefully. “Not bad considering this is actually one of my old school shirts.”

 _Really? How does it still fit?_ I ponder. Eren picks up on my questioning eyebrow.

“Yeah... my Mum has a habit of buying me clothes to grow into. Still does it. Annoying, right? I’ve got a stash of too-big Christmas jumpers upstairs. Know anyone in size L who really likes reindeer?”

Hmm... the brat’s lively gesturing only brings to attention his muscular shoulders. I’m trying to work out how, seeing as he has a sit down job.

“Levi?”

Oh, _right_. Words. Really should be saying something. _Anything._ No. Not anything. ‘Mind if I slide my hands under your shirt?’ is bound to end in the brat running off and never daring to look my way again. My mind might be in tatters at the moment, but I know I don’t want that.

Tread carefully. Be normal. You can do this!

“Afraid I don’t, brat.” I reply.

_...Did I just say ‘brat’ out loud?_

_Bollocks to this! What possessed me to think that I could come off as normal when I’m all sorts of fucked up right now?_

 

The brat’s mouth opens and closes like a fish flung out of water.

I’m backpedalling as quickly as I can. “I didn’t mean... what I meant was...” I’m stopped by something I can’t truly believe is happening. The brat has a warm hand on my shoulder and is _still smiling_. It’s softer kind now, the sort you would use to approach something injured.

“It’s okay. It’s good that you’re not...”

“Normal?” I mutter bitterly.

“Well, yeah! But in a good way, y’know.”

“Right.”

“Hah. Call me whatever you like,” he says with a delight too pure to be sarcastic.

I’m smirking now. This brat is unbelievable. “Good luck for tonight,” I say sincerely. It would truly be a shame if he gets torn to pieces this week. I resolve to help him along where possible.

“Thanks! And I’m glad you like my outfit.”

_I'm glad you’re wearing it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladela. So much for "I'll do one chapter for each night."


	3. The First Night: Rainbow Converse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like converse. Can you tell?

**The First Night: Rainbow Converse  
**

I wait until my colleagues are out of the room before diving into my satchel for the contestant crib sheet. It’s a document I generally only afford a cursory glance when Erwin commands us to ‘study’ this week's unsuspecting victims. The pages look decidedly worse for wear having been slung about in the satchel with spare bits of equipment.

 

I single out the sheet of paper titled Eren Yeager, which now undergoes intense scrutiny. The brat in question is judging me from the monochrome mug shot at the top of the page. But I am not deterred. This is important. It’s time to find evidence which will put an end to these distracting thoughts concerning tonight’s host.

 

_ Eren Yeager _

_Age: 18_

_Employment: 999 call handler (2 years)_

_Living Arrangements: Renting alone  
_

 

All this is standard stuff. Facts already known. I rub a clipped fingernail down the page, scanning impatiently until I find what I am looking for:

_Orientation: Bisexual_

_Marital status: Single (6 months)_

 

I process this information more slowly than usual, curling the offending document tightly within my fist and dropping the abused page back into the satchel. This does nothing to relieve the nervous tension pulsing in my chest, radiating through every nerve in my body. Because this means Eren not only likes guys (and girls, apparently) but is available. Before I know it, the green eyed brunette has carved a hollow in my subconcious. His tanned arms tuck under his cheek as his warm weight nestles into my resolve. A satsified expression spreads over his features.

I find myself cross examining all the smiles I have seen so far. Is the way he smiles for me any different to when he spoke to Erwin, or Petra? I recall the act which made me so sure he was straight to begin with: greeting Petra by picking her up by the waist and spinning her around so fast that it took more than a minute for her to recover from giggling. Then both of them blushing. The brunette’s cheeks a shade of viscous red and Petra’s a rosy pink.

For some reason, remembering this is making the tension in my chest feel... hotter. I can’t explain it other way than it’s like this burning in my gut is threatening to boil over. Into what? I honestly don’t know. And that scares the fuck out of me. Because I’m not a control freak. But I do expect to be in control of myself, thank you very much. And obsessing over a 18 year old I barely met is not on my to-do list for the week. Or ever, frankly.

 

I try to knead away the fuzzy feeling in my head with a knuckle and am alarmed feel the heat of my forehead.

I must be ill. Yes, that must be it. Flu or something. Because sure as hell no crush has ever felt like _this_. Not even ones with impossible odds. There really isn’t any other answer other than ill-health. Maybe the brat’s got some Gaviscon in the medicine cabinet.

 

Right, so now that’s established, back to the green-eyed brat who is only half as straight as I hoped.

I can’t even take comfort in this information being potentially wrong. For one, he doesn’t seem the lying type. Secondly, Erwin has a talent for getting the truth out of would-be contestants. In another life, Mr Smith would make an excellent military interrogator. What with his acute lie-detecting abilities and talent for wheedling out the truth. Also, I can usually tell. But whatever I’m coming down with must be affecting that useful ability.

He doesn’t even have the courtesy to be spoken for. Speaking of which; how in hell is this guy single for the last 6 months?

Who wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to date him?

He's young, gorgeous, employed, has his own place. _  
_

And looking at him in that schoolboy outfit, he just has to work out. Or do sport. Or _something_. No one looks like that without some serious effort.

 

It’s when I imagine Eren undoing the fourth button on his shirt to expose the _perfect_ amount of neck that I come to a sucker-punch of realisation:

I’m infatuated. With a contestant. A _teenager_. 

Or I'm officially fucked. It pretty much amounts to the same thing: a week of enjoyable agony ahead. The privilege of being around this gorgeous brat while knowing that time will fly by all too fast until there is only memories kept keen by nostalgia. Oh, and a digital file of the episodes. The ‘Trost’ file which will sit proudly between Torquay and Truro, where Eren’s green-eyes will be preserved for all eternity.

The thought makes me feel a little better.

 

* * *

 

 

_BZZZT!_

_Eren stops mid-way in widening the knot of his school tie and takes a big gulp, fingers fumbling over the knot now._

**Eren, put those red converse to use already!**

_He opens the door._

 

**First to arrive is the red-head pharmacist, Hange Zoë who seems to have mistaken this for a Halloween party.**

**Eren:** _(Kissing her cheek while trying not to gawp at Hange’s outfit)_ Hi! Come on in, I’m Eren.

 **Hange:** _(Grabbing his nearest hand and shaking it with both of hers)_ Ahh! You look amazing! I’m Hange Zo _ë._

 **Eren:** And you look... err... Is that blood? _(he points a red splodge on the apron Hange is wearing. It has many different coloured stains on it.)_

 **Hange:** Maybe! Or perhaps that’s the ketchup. ‘Cause you know, I’m the zommmmbie dinner lady.

 **Eren:** Hahee. I like it! And is that a ladle?

 **Hange:** Yes! They’re for you. _(She produces a matching whisk, grater and spatula from a deep pocket of the apron she is wearing)_ Figured I know nothing about you except that you must like cooking, so... _(she passes the utensils to him.)_

 

 **Eren:** Haha, thanks. Anyway, can I get you a glass of punch?

 **Hange:** _(in a low voice)_ You know, I could kill for some.

 **Eren:** _(smirking)_ Please don’t. These guys are great! ( _He waves at a Levi who appears to be glaring at Eren from the stairs and shaking his head, and to Petra who is wincing in living room doorway. Erwin elbows past her and takes an exasperated breath.)_

 **Erwin:** Hey! Try and remember what I said. When the cameras are rolling just pretend like we don’t exist.

 **Eren:** Right. Sorry, Erwin.

 **Erwin:** That’s alright. Now say something like ‘Please don’t kill me until you’ve had a chance to taste my food’ and get Hange that drink.

 **Eren:** Why would I say—

_BZZZT!_

 

**Eren, answer that door!**

 

_...BZZZZT!_

**My,** **someone’s** **impatient!**

_BZZ-BZZZZZZZZZZT!_

 

**What would you know? It’s entrepreneur extraordinaire Jean at the door, who apart from the addition of a school tie, he hasn’t made much of an effort with Eren’s dress code.**

**Eren:** _(shaking Jean’s hand)_ Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Eren.

 **Jean:** _(he glances at the bouquet of cheap-looking carnations he is holding and frowns at Eren)_ Ah, thought you’d be a chick. I’m Jean by the way. If you’re wondering where you recognise me from, it’s from the news.

 **Eren:** Wow! You’re a journalist?

 **Jean:** Have another go.

 **Eren:** _(looking frustrated)_ Uhhhm.

Jean: ...because I own the Lucky Spurs chain.

 **Eren:** The what now?

 **Jean:** Oh come on. _(grinning)_ You must be a gambling man from your choice of theme.

 **Eren:** ...Not really... the odd scratch card maybe. Anyway, would you like some punch or can I get you a ginger beer?

 **Jean:** _(thumping Eren on the shoulder)_ Good one. Now what wine are you serving?

 

**Watch out Eren, Jean’s a self professed connoisseur.**

 

 **Eren:** I got red, white or pink.

**Oh, Eren! I can’t watch...**

**Jean:** _(voice flat with disbelief)_ I think you mean _Ros_ é. And the vintages?

 **Eren:** _(nervously)_ How about I just get all three and you can choose?

 **Jean:** _(waving a hand languidly)_ Please.

_BZZZZT!_

**Eren:** Just coming!

**Somewhere behind that impressive bouquet is nature-loving Historia... I think, anyway.**

**Eren:** Wow, these are amazing! Thank you. _(He takes the flowers and kisses Historia on her cheek.)_ I’m Eren.

 **Historia:** I’m Historia. And I’m so glad you like them. These are tropical plants so will last longer if kept in a sunny spot.

 **Eren:** I’ll find somewhere for them. Don’t you worry, Historia – such a pretty name – and I love what you’ve done with your hair by the way.

 **Historia:** Oh, you do? _(She runs her fingers along the blue ribbon at the end of the braid.)_ Thank you! I always used to wear it this way at school. So thought it’d complete the look.

 **Eren:** It so does. Can I get you a glass of punch?

 **Historia:** Yes, please.

 

**While Eren puts the finishing touches to his starter there is just enough time for his guests to look around his apartment.**

* * *

 

This is the most exercise we will get all night. Even though this 2-floor apartment is on the small side myself, Mike and Petra have our work cut out following the contestants as they comment on features such as Eren’s converse collection like tourists admiring a fantastical landmark.

“Ohmigod! He’s almost MY SIZE!” Hange the human foghorn observes as I wince, not caring who sees. I am already regretting standing so close. My hearing isn’t what it was 10 years ago and that might have done irreparable damage.

Hange exchanges a white trainers for a black converse with blue flames on the side. They're slightly too big, but this doesn't stop her lacing up the second shoe.

“Historia. Jean. Choose a pair each. Then we’ll all be a team, right!”

“It’s a competition. We’re _not_ a team.” Jean scoffs, looking like Hange suggested he lick her face.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport!” says Historia, putting on a swirly purple pair which are comically huge on her smaller feet.

It’s mildly amusing watching the struggle take place in the tall, two-toned man. He snorts on admitting defeat. The 2nd time he’s done so. I decide that this contestant deserves no other nickname than horse-face.

 

I realise that’s everyone accounted for, nickname wise.

Of course there’s the brat. Fog-horn for Hange. Historia’s sweet pea and now the two toned man who couldn’t be bothered to dress up is horse-face. Suits him.

It is only with the combined efforts of Foghorn and sweet pea that horse-face reluctantly slips off his highly polished shoes for a pair of grey pinstriped converse. He outright refuses the rainbow pair which Hange insists will ‘brighten him up’. I’m pretty happy with my work here. Crisp close-ups of horse-face’s reactions and swift movement between the speakers.

When the gang move downstairs I know there is no immediate hurry to follow. Mike is ready to hound them at the bottom of the stairs. Because of this lack of urgency, I take a minute to put together the dishevelled sets of converse. It’s really quite a collection.

The rainbow converse lay abandoned on the brat’s bedcovers, a checked blue design screaming of budget store. I examine the cover for cleanliness before sitting on the duvet which sinks a little too readily under my weight. The brat sure takes care of these shoes, which is refreshing seeing as shoes are so often disgustingly filthy.

These rainbow converse are immaculate. There is no bubble of anxiety which I would usually feel about putting on someone else’s shoes as I slip them on. They squeak satisfyingly on the wood of the stairs as I make my way downstairs. It strikes me too late what Erwin might think of this. I decide that I don’t care.

If this gets one smile from the brat then it’ll be worth all the sideways glances Erwin can throw at me.

 

* * *

 

My decision to wear the brat's converse pays off with added interest. Unfortunately, he chooses to notice when serving up the starter. On seeing my borrowed footwear, he pauses with a plate swaying precariously over Jean’s head and _giggles_ at me, telling me that they are his favourite too.

Erwin swoops in like an angry bird of prey. “Eren! You’re supposed to be serving the starter... now you’re going to have to remove Hange and Historia’s food and bring the plates out again.

But Eren finds this hilarious. Not helped by Hange imitating the movement of Erwin’s eyebrows with her own. Historia tries not to spit out her wine and Jean grins obviously between Erwin and Hange which only angers the producer further. Not that I have eyes to spare for Erwin. I decide that the only thing cuter than this brat’s smile is the laughter now pouring from him. I am like a hummingbird sipping nectar. Relishing the precious taste for these few short seconds. Not that anyone would know. There is nothing in my expression to see other than the usual mildly bored expression.

Or at least, I hope there isn't.

 

The drama over, I am panning out in preparation for the brat leaving and re-entering the room with his rapidly cooling food... when

– _Damn!_

The brat is recovered from laughing and stretches casually with his fingers interlocked above his head. It is the sort of stretch which involves his whole body. I can only think about how gorgeous the shiver of muscles would feel under my fingers.

_Is the brat even aware of how sexy this casual movement is? Does he have a single clue?_

And best of all, the action reveals the barest slip of stomach. He might as well be wearing a tank top for the effect it is having on my composure. I cannot take my eyes from the tanned skin which looks so inviting. This really should be illegal. Or at the very least pay per view.

I realise with horror that my face is no longer hidden behind the camera. And Erwin is frowning at me. _Shitballs!_

I make a late effort to disguise my voyeurism by shooting a slow, panning shot from the brat’s red and white converse, all the way up to untamed brunette locks.

Despite my best efforts, I can’t help but linger a little on those slender hips and an exposed slip of neck. Slightly blushed from the recent laughter. The shot will never make it into the day-time TV show. I should probably delete it. Hell, I should definitely delete it.

I'll delete it later.

 


	4. The First Night: Battle of Wills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was meant to be food here. But Eren and Levi got carried away with their stubbornness (let's be honest, it's mainly Levi's fault.)
> 
> The Come Dine With Me 'narrator' is back with a vengence next chapter, where there will be dinner party shenanigans once more.
> 
> Do comment if you feel so inclined. <3 Criticism is appreciated as much as praise.

**The First Night: Battle of Wills  
**

 

You wouldn’t know from watching the show that each ‘dinner party’ is actually a carefully orchestrated routine of eat and talk, interviews, repeat, with perhaps a side of cheesy entertainment if the host has planned something.

In a further step away from reality, Erwin occasionally pauses filming to intervene. This interruption can be anything from tamely suggesting a topic when the conversation is running flat to that time where he insisted that the contestant get out their pet snake on the table. Where, in a moment of rancid viewing – sorry – ‘television gold’, it promptly shat on the table. An event which horrified her guests and left the host mortified. Not least because snakes are only meant to defecate once a month and hers had left a stinking deposit merely a week ago.

She was far too distressed to suspect Erwin. Wouldn’t think it of the handsome producer with the bleached smiles, loud shirts and polished shoes. But I know better. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past that sly fuck to have slipped the serpent some sort of laxative. Anything and everything for those ratings. And it turns out that snake shit makes for surprisingly good fertiliser for growing viewing figures. Go figure.

 

Anyway, right now I’ve got a few minutes to kill between courses. Petra is upstairs filming the guests’ opinions on the starter. The brat’s food went down pretty well apart from an emergency dash for milk when Historia, red faced and eyes leaking, grievously underestimated some fiery horseradish.

Mike is filming progress on the main course and no doubt pestering the brat for tasters of everything while Erwin is no doubt out for a smoke which may or may not be the fragrant kind. So I figure, might as well review the footage so far. Maybe actually get around to deleting that slow, toe-head shot of the brat which is good for just about nothing other than my immediate viewing pleasure.

 

I raise my camera stand for a more comfortable replay and am about to get started on editing when Petra appears, sooner than expected. Or rather, she creeps up on me. It is only when she breathes straight into my ear, “Pssst! Levi.” that I notice the blue-eyed blonde who is taking dangerous liberties with my personal space.

“Busy.” I say, eyes fixed back on the viewing piece and swatting a hand for good measure. Petra wisely withdraws to avoid the blow. However, my colleague appears to have developed a death wish as she brushes manicured fingers along the arm of my camera, knowing that someone touching my equipment without reason is something I can’t ignore. That or she’s simply determined to ruin what was looking to be a promising evening.

 

“Petra,” I warn in a low rumble while eyeing her darkly. It does the trick in getting her grubby mitts off my equipment.

 _“_ But _Leeeevi._ Please, you’ll want to hear this. No. You _need_ to hear this. _”_

“What?” I growl, swinging the arm of the camera back towards me protectively.

I am quite shocked to see Petra’s blue eyes brimming with mischief. It’s setting me on edge even before she announces proudly, “ _You’ve_ got a crush on Eren.”

I don’t humour her with a response, shooting her one of my best glares before readjusting the frame of the camera to eclipse her crescent grin.

 

“Oh. So you wouldn’t be interested to hear that he was asking _all about you_ earlier.”

“No. Now do me a favour and fuck off.” _He was?_

Petra sighs in an admission of defeat and begins to walk away. I am stuck thinking what in hell the brat would be asking about me when the sound of Petra’s retreating footsteps are suddenly absent. “Right,” she calls over her shoulder. “So you definitely wouldn’t be interested in what I told him then.”

Petra beams at the moment I look up, her face awash with victory. “Thought so.”

“Tch. Wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face already. Because you’re wrong. In fact I don’t have words for how wrong you are about this.” Petra drums the fingers on one hand against her hip. Completely unconvinced.

“He’s cute, Levi. I get it.”

 

_Right. Time to squash this (true) accusation._

“Yeah. And so are you. Doesn’t mean I want to take you out for dinner—”

“Well, you wouldn’t. Would you?” Petra giggles as I realise the whopping great hole in my argument.

“...No” I’m forced to admit. Damn. My logic’s usually more water-tight than this, or rather, less like a leaky sieve. Still, a man has to try. Perhaps I can still convince my nosy colleague that I am not crushing on tonight’s 18 year old host.

“You’re still wrong.” I state calmly. “In case you haven’t noticed the kid’s half my age.”

“So? Jeez, Levi. You’re allowed to have a crush. It’s not like anything would come from it. He’s a contestant!”

“No.” I say, feeling the truth of Petra’s statement like a hot stone burning through the pit of my stomach. Yeah, nothing could come of it. That’s why I’d rather try to enjoy the few positives of this situation rather than humour my colleagues.

 

Now Petra is narrowing her eyes at me with suspicion. I suck in a long breath through my teeth, hoping to banish the bitterness which must have been evident in that one syllable.

“Oh, Levi. You’ve got it bad. _Sorry_ – I didn’t know.” Petra gushes. Suddenly her chiffon sleeved arms are coming in for a hug. Something which is happening over my dead body.

“There’s nothing to know.” I quickly insist, ducking while raising a palm to stall her embrace. But I’m no longer sure why I am bothering to fight Petra’s suspicion. Truth is, I now can’t dislodge the nagging need to know just what she said to the brat. “So, you’ve been sharing my life story with the contestants.” I say pointedly. “Let’s talk about that, hmm?”

“It was only Eren, actually.” Petra clarifies. She pulls a wistful expression and twiddles her foot, “It’s very... challenging to say no to him.”

I press the tips of my fingers together and slam into her blue eyes with a piercing stare. “If it was only Eren then I promise only to kill _you_ and leave the ones you love. Now tell me what you said so I can plan the manner of your demise.”

“Levi! You’re so dramatic!” Petra half laughs.

 

“What did you tell him?” I demand.

“Oh, you know. I just told him what you like.”

“And what _do_ I like?— Petra!” I am growling as she starts giggling breathlessly, bent over almost double and pointing at me with one finger like I’m a freaking circus attraction. I half expect Erwin to rush in with half a fag from his lips, wanting to know who’s strangling a cat.

“Sorry!” she gasps. “But that’s such a silly question.” She takes a moment to recover herself and gapes at me with what looks like amazement. “Oh... you really do care what I said to Eren.”

 _“Just tell me.”_ My tone allows for no argument.

“Okay. I might have mentioned your thing for cleanliness.”

_Right. Not the end of the world._

“And that you like French food. Because you are French. That was one of the first things he asked by the way, ‘cause he realised you weren’t from England. If you were then you'd have better manners.”

 _I can live with that, too._ From the thoughtful look on the blonde’s face, there must be more. “Anything else?”

“Oh, and _Levi_!” She claps a hand over her mouth in horror.

“What?”

“I might have mentioned that you wanted to be a pilot, only you couldn’t pursue it because... _you know_.” The last words come out almost as a squeak. But I do know. How can I ever forget? Four years further education in mathematics and physics, only to be turned down for every pilot apprenticeship programme. All for the same reason:

Because I was too short. By _3 fucking centimetres_ in some cases. It was with no back-up plans in place that little-sister Mikasa offered me a temporary lifeline in the form of an accelerated camera course, at the end of which dangled the promise of guaranteed (if highly irregular) work for her studio.

And just look how that worked out. The time to crawl out from the safety net is long gone. Now all I can do is continue my soul-sucking circuit of the entertainment industry. A life consisting of surprisingly mediocre pay, constant travel (not the glamorous kind) and of course putting up with my apparently treacherous colleagues.

I don’t say another word to Petra. The fury in my features is enough. The blonde makes her wisest choice of the night, uttering a couple more pathetic ‘sorry’s and making a hasty retreat. No doubt to continue the interviews she can’t possibly have finished yet.

I squeeze two fingers against my temple. It does little to relieve the pressure which has built there so I decide to get a glass of something cold. Preferably something stronger than the host’s punch or ginger beer.

 

Of course that means venturing into the kitchen, where Mike is filming the brat perparing his main course.

A thick blast of savoury aroma hits me as I close the door behind me discreetly. Mike glances at me askew, wrinkling his nose as if he can fucking _smell_ how pissed off I feel.

“Erwin need something?” he enquires. I shake my head, turning my attention to the brat who has just paused in some vigorous mashing to raise his spare hand in greeting.

“Levi! Hi.”

“Hey.” I say. Although it comes out more of a mumble.

The brat blinks ridiculously thick lashes at Mike and asks him in a voice which is difficult to argue with, “Mike. I bet you’ve got enough footage now. Is it alright if we just talk for a while? It might help me not blurt out at you guys from the table.” He laughs nervously, one hand at the back of his neck and the beginnings of a blush racing up his cheeks.

“Right you are,” Mike says before turning to me. “Levi.” He pats me heavily on the shoulder and I roll my eyes at the patronising gesture. “Entertain the kid while for a minute, will you? Might go join Erwin for a cig.” _See if he’s got any weed, you mean._ Mike takes my silence for assent.

 

Just like that we’re alone. The brunette leans against the sideboard and groans.

_Fuck...is he that unwilling to be alone in the same room as me? The cheeky fuc—_

“God, Levi. I hate it when people do that.” Right. So the groan isn’t directed at me. Then what?

“Do what?” I ask, genuinely curious about this change in attitude.

“Calling me ‘kid’. Mike’s got into the habit. And I swear Jean does it just because he knows it pisses me off. Oh, and Petra called me ‘sweetie pie’ earlier which is like 100 times worse.” He ends his rant with an exasperated huff with sends strands of hair flying from his eyes, which he closes before I can get a decent look. The 18 year old instantly appears closer to my age, or perhaps it’s just that this is the first time I’ve seen him look truly stressed.

He’s done alright, actually. Contestants usually start losing it well before this point.

It’s almost unnerving that the brat is not any less attractive in this state. I decide he probably looks just as gorgeous at the end of a night shift at the emergency call centre as he does at the beginning of it. Speaking of which, perhaps that job’s part of the reason why he’s generally so upbeat. Because I imagine you have to have some sort of coping mechanism perfected just to stay sane in a job like that, where a large chuck of your life is spent speaking to scared victims, nut-jobs and the grievously ill. It’s the sort of job that could drive people nuts. Also the sort I’d probably get fired from in under a week for saying the wrong thing.

Especially if someone shouldn’t be calling the emergency service in the first place. You hear stories of people calling 999 for a stomach bug. I’m likely to combat that sort of misuse by offering to come round and make said idiot hurt enough that they _do_ need that ambulance.

Eren opens his eyes, which widen as if not expecting to find me still there in his kitchen. I find myself infinitely glad that I haven’t called him kid, seeing as it’s obviously a sore point. I know how a nickname can get under your skin, however innocently it is meant. _Hey,_ _short stack! Midget! Puny!_ You get the picture...

 

“Hey, ‘kid’ can’t be worse than ‘brat,’” I reason, throwing him a small smirk in the hope it will catch on.

His bottom lip catches in his teeth as he thinks it over.“Nah. Brat’s alright. It’s different. Plus you give all the contestants nicknames, right?”

“Petra tell you that?”

“Hah. No. Just figured I’m not that special.”

“That’s right,” I assure him. “In fact you’re not even the first _brat_. There was that ‘spoilt brat’ a few seasons back...”

The brunette uses his palms to spring from his leaning position against the sideboard. His green eyes light up as he asks in a voice low and mischievous, “Did you have a crush on ‘spoilt brat’ too?

 _Now Petra’s stepped the line. How dare she... “_ I’m going to kill that bloody woman!” I mutter without thinking.

The brat gasps and lurches forward, only a few feet away now, stance lowered so he looks me straight in the face. “Petra? Please don’t! Anyway, she didn’t tell me that... I uhm... figured it out.”

I am trying to work out how when the brat saves me the trouble.

“I know you switched the glasses earlier – the chipped crystal for ones that match.” I am ready to protest that he couldn’t possibly know that because he was upstairs getting changed. But he has that covered. “Sure, I didn’t see you do it. But I know it was swapped because I always use _that_ glass for special occasions. I didn’t think about it not matching.”

“Ever heard of a simple act of kindness, _kid_?” I say. His nose scrunches on hearing the last word but to the brat’s credit, he doesn’t admit defeat. Hell no. The brunette sets his jaw and proceeds to tell me everywhere I went wrong.

“Yeah. I’ve also heard that you don’t do kindness _,_ so explain that _._ ” _Damn Petra._ “Oh, and you keep looking at me.”

I stare at him blankly; speaking in a slow and relaxed manner to combat the brat’s dogged determination. “I’m filming you. It’s my job to look at you.”

“And you’re wearing my shoes.” He points to the rainbow sneakers. “Which _I_ think you only wore for my sake.”

“To be young again.” I say scornfully. “Thinking the world revolves around you. Speaking of which, some of us have work to be getting on with. As do you.” I nod toward the steaming pots on the stove before turning my back on the young man.

 

“You do like me, though!” he insists, moving surprisingly quickly to place his toned body between me and the exit.

I could argue that he’s mistaken. I could say that the other contestants talked me into his rainbow converse. But one casual enquiry from this nosy brat would prove otherwise. Plus I don’t want to appear a complete fucking pushover.

Why bother fighting anyway? When I’ve apparently failed so spectacularly in keeping my _appreciation_ of tonight’s host to myself.

The brunette is waiting for me to answer with the patience of a saint as I close my eyes, praying to a God I don’t even believe in. Please, just let me sink into Eren's black and white kitchen tiles. Let a puddle of dark clothing multicoloured footwear be the only evidence I ever existed...

In the absence of divine intervention, I open my eyes to the brat’s expectant face. Closer still. His features soften when I don’t answer. Tch. I don't need this brat's sympathy.

“It’s okay, Levi. I don’t mind,” he says to break the awkward silence.

 

I don’t believe him for a second. Suddenly, this kitchen feels far too small and I want nothing more than to shove past the brat in front of the door and forget this conversation ever happened. Because I know pity when I see it.

Not that I blame the brat. Not entirely. People like him can’t help but be kind in situations like this. And that’s surely what the brunette is doing now; trying to wash away my concerns with that inviting smile. Sharing his warmth by getting so close that I can smell fresh sweat on his skin and something sweet - coconut? - which I can only guess is in his shampoo.

There is no other option but _try_ and salvage this situation. Perhaps I can lead the brunette to believe this is all a misunderstanding. I _must_ make him believe it. Because hell will freeze over before I endure a week of sympathy from a brat half my age.

 

In a moment of cold genius I realise what has to be done. After Petra let slip the story of how my dream to be a pilot was gunned down, she owes me to play along with this if Eren asks. Which he probably will.

I find a suitably clipped tone to combat the brunette’s open warmth. “Sorry to disappoint, brat. But you’ve fallen victim to a bet between me and Petra.” I manage not to wince when his well-meaning smile falls flat. Even so, my resolve is trickling away fast like the last few grains in a sand timer.

“Yeah. It was a dickish thing to do. But you didn’t _really_ believe that I...?” I trail off, realising that the brat’s chin is tilted down and away as if to hide his expression. His whole frame seems to sloop. Bringing him down past my level.

I survey the drooping teen before me, feeling like I just kicked a puppy.

And just like that, my genius plan which moments ago was airy with promise falls flat like a failed soufflé.

 

 _This is so wrong._ This evasiveness is _s_ o unlike the young man quick to smile and eager to please. I can’t carry out this ruse. Not at this price.

I pull in a tight breath as if more oxygen will help in my determination to make this situation... if not _right_... then at least not so painfully _wrong_.

"Hey, brat.”

He murmurs something which I don’t hear. It’s not helping that the brat’s speaking to the floor.

“Where’s your manners, hmm? It’s polite to look at someone when you speak to them.” He glances at me then. But it’s only a flicker. And I realise I need the flame back. The comforting warmth which this young man emits without even thinking.

He’s looking past me now to a pan which is visciously bubbling and desperately needs attention. _Great. So now he’s interested in the food._

“I need to get that,” he says blandly, making his way to the hob.

_Oh no you don’t._

I throw all caution to the wind and place a finger at the centre of his chest to stop him.

“Eren.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” he eventually says, still speaking more the floor than me.

"Tch."

Eren raises his head now. I am taken aback by the forcefulness of his expression. "Or do you want to _fuck_ with me some more?"

"Hey, that's not-" I begin, but Eren is looking determinedly to the bubbling pan on the hob, trying to squeeze past without touching me.

I plant my feet in a way to make it difficult for him to pass. Eren shoots me a dark look. A warning. He is clearly not above trying to shove me aside.

Sod this. I’ve had just about enough of this stubbornness.

 

I tuck a finger under his chin and almost recoil from the shock of how _hot_ his skin is. However, my touch is having the desired effect as the young man’s chin lifts pliantly under the light pressure I apply.

When those rich green eyes meet mine once more, I’m stunned by their shiny quality. That and the raw redness ringing the green irises. So much so that I maintain contact for a few moments more than necessary. When I do remove my finger from his chin, the wave of loss is instant. But at least he doesn’t look away, or try to reach the pans.

 _He’s waiting_ I realise, at the very same moment I realise that I haven’t planned what to do once we reached this point.

 

I ground myself as best as possible under the force of those sorrowful eyes. It’d be nice to get this over with while maintaining a shred of dignity.

I force myself to look straight into those emerald pools, hoping my sincerity comes off as I say, “Alright. Thing is, brat... there wasn’t a bet.” He furrows his brows questioningly.

“What?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

 

Eren brings a hand to scratch the back of his neck, looking at me askew as his hand unconsciously moves up to ruffle his dark locks. “Why make that up? It’s okay to have a crush.”

“Seriously? Do you realise how much older I am?”

“A few years.”

“Try twice your age.”

“No way!”

“Yes. I am _literally_ twice your age. So now we’ve established that, if you’ll just excuse me.” I go to duck under his elbow, but am promptly grasped by the shoulders. It’s not a rough hold, exactly. But I am acutely aware of the power behind his grip.

“This is no way to treat your elder,” I say to distract him, while tensing my upper body in preparation to twist out of Eren’s hold, perhaps turn the tables and surprise the brat by putting him into a headlock... Except the younger man is wise to my movements, twisting the fabric of my sweater in his fingers. I realise we are probably matched for strength. Maybe matched for determination too. Neither of us willing to back down from... whatever this is.

“Then how _should_ I treat you?” Eren asks, releasing his grip on one shoulder briefly to run his warm fingers down my sleeve.

 _Fuck. Is this him getting me back for my earlier lie?_ No. I’ve only known him half a day but I can say for certain that Eren doesn’t play games like that. He isn’t a complete dick like me.

So that can only mean he’s actively flirting with me. Even knowing my age. It doesn’t make sense and I’m babbling something about having work to do when Eren leans close to my ear and says in a voice sweet as sin, _“I only want you to know that I still don’t mind.”_ Eren ducks back to assess my reaction and feels the need to clarify when I appear to display none, In truth I’m trying to focus on breathing and not nuzzling against the bare skin of the brat’s throat. “I’m saying that I don’t mind that you have a crush on me.” he says, releasing both my arms in one decisive movement and leaving me feeling inexplicably weak.

“Whatever,” I reply with a glare, trusting that I don’t look as shaken up as I feel. “Now get back to that stove before you burn something.”

“Yes, Sir!” Eren says with a wink.

“What?” he smirks when I roll my eyes. “Just respecting my elders.”

_Smarmy brat._


	5. The First Night: Missing Footage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the first night, basically. There's plenty of food in this one.
> 
> Also, uhhh.. keep getting ill these last 2 weeks. Need to not be ill so I can think in a straight line. Feel free to point out any errors.

**The First Night: Missing Footage  
**

**After the success of his starter, will Eren’s main of Teacher’s Hotpot with Herby Dumplings hit the mark?**

_Eren serves a sharing dish of the steaming stew with bowls of mash, Smash and vegetables._

**Historia:** Eren, this smells amazing.

 **Hange:** _(skewering a piece of meat and examining it gleefully)_ Yes... but what did they teach?

 **Jean:** Pfft. _(rolling his eyes at Hange)_

 **Eren** : _(mischievously)_ It’s my maths teacher.

**No, Eren... it’s beef.**

**Historia:** Tough times when our education system is relying on the services of farmyard animals. Tasty though.

 **Jean:** ( _noticing Eren laughing with his mouth full of stew)_ Although having cattle as a role model _does_ explain Eren’s table manners – _OW!_

 **Historia:** _(mock innocently)_ Sorry. Did I get you with my shoe?

**Wow. Who’d have thought that petite Historia could be so... _(growl)_?**

**Hange:** _(raising a glass and nudging Jean to do the same)_ Anyway! Here’s to your delicious maths teacher. To Mr Bovine! (all chink their glasses and drink)

**I SAID it's beef! I _can_ assure the audience that no educational professionals were harmed in the making of this main.**

**Eren:** _(raising his glass again)_ And here’s to three more fantastic nights. _(all: hear hear!)_

 

* * *

 

 **Eren:** Food okay, everyone? I’ve never done a proper dinner party before. I won’t be offended if you tell the truth.

 **Historia:** Alright... if I have to tell the honest truth. The stew’s fantastic but you steamed the carrots to death.

 **Eren:** _(nervously scratching behind his ear)_ I know, right? Might’ve lost focus for a few minutes there.

 **Hange:** Well I think they’re great. Authentic like. _(everyone looks at her with confusion)_ Our carrots were always done to mush at school. At least yours are still orange, Eren!

 **Eren:** Hah. _(addressing everyone)_ Can I get anyone a top up?

 **Historia:** Same again please.

 **Jean:** _(muttering)_ Bring back something other than this cheap plonk while you’re at it – _OW_! _(thumping sound under the table as Historia’s heel catches Jean’s leg)_

**Now now, children. Everyone play nice or Eren might send you for a time out.**

**Eren:** Jean, maybe you’ll like the white wine better. And Hange, can I get you anything?

 **Hange:** Ooh, now that you ask... got seconds? It’s just... that meat! _(makes a blissful face)_

 **Eren:** _(Stunned)_ Really? If you’re sure...

 **Hange:** Yeah! You know this is some sort of miracle because I usually _hate_ dumplings. You have more dumplings too, right?

 **Eren:** I can knock something up.

 **Hange:** HAHA. I bet you’re well experienced in ‘knocking things up’. _(looking apologetically at Erwin.)_ Sorry! Am I allowed to say that?

_(Erwin waves his hand briskly in a ‘carry on’ gesture, choosing to ignore another contestant addressing him directly in favour of Hange continuing with the crazy comments)_

**Hange:** It’s just that he’s hot. If I _wanted_ to have someone’s babies... _(Eren looks caught between being amused and petrified)_ I’d have ALL of his and hope that the good genes come across.

 **Historia:** _(brushing Eren’s fringe from his eyes)_ You do have beautiful eyes. I almost envy the person who gets to wake up to—

 **Eren:** _(gushing)_ I’m single, so that doesn’t really—

 **Historia:** Aw. You poor thing.

 **Eren:** I don’t really mind. I can get a bit angry sometimes. So it’s for the best. Anyway – let me get those drinks and Hange’s foo—

 **Historia:** You have _anger_ problems? _(reaching out to ruffle Eren’s hair)_ But you’re such a sweetheart.

 **Hange:** Ooh! Me too! _(leaning over the table to reach Eren’s hair, making a soft groaning sound on contact)_ Wooow. So soft. What do you condition with?

 

 **Jean:** _(coughs obnoxiously)_ Enough of the Eren show, already.

 **Hange:** It’s Eren’s night so we’re allowed to fuss him.

 **Jean:** That’s not how it’s supposed to work.

 **Eren:** _(grinning sheepishly while being dually petted and cooed over, hands raised in defeat)_ Best to weather this one out I think.

 **Historia:** _(huffing and taking her hand from Eren’s head_ ) Here I was thinking you were _enjoying_ our attention.

 **Eren:** I... am. But Jean’s right. I’m supposed to be doing things for all you guys.

 **Hange:** _(giving Eren’s head one last pat)_ You’re doing things for _me_.

 **Historia:** Hange!

 **Hange:** What? I’ve already said I’d have his babies... if I wanted babies.

 **Eren:** Do I get any say in this?

 **Hange:** Do you want babies?

 **Jean:** _(leaning back dangerously on the chair)_ Don’t be ridiculous, he’s basically still a kid himself.

 **Eren:** I am not! _(noticing most of Jean’s meal remains uneaten)_ Anyway, was the food alright for you?

 **Jean:** If you want my honest opinion. It was a perfectly reasonable dish...

 **Eren:** _(looking relieved)_ Thanks.

 **Jean:** ...for Sunday lunch at your grandmother’s. The perfect meal really, seeing as this doesn’t require the use of teeth. Or taste buds.

_(shocked gasps)_

**I’d say that from the look on his face, Eren’s completely forgotten about those drinks now.**

 

 **Eren:** _(gritting his teeth and rising to his feet)_ _That_ was uncalled for.

**Keep it together, man! Jean’s tongue might just be hacking away your chances of winning the grand.**

**Jean:** _(swinging forward in the chair, scraping the legs noisily against the wooden floor)_ Hardly. You have these two fawning over you. Someone needs to put you in your place.

 **Eren:** _(ignoring Historia’s worried expression, eyes only for Jean)_ And where’s that, exactly?

 **Jean:** Far south of me on the leader board, I expect.

**Oho. Someone likes playing with fire!  
**

**Eren:** _(looking straight into the camera held by Levi at the foot of the table)_ Can you stop filming while I sort this? Please.

 **Erwin:** ( _shoots Levi a look which says ‘don’t you dare’ and nods to Eren, bopping his fists playfully as if encouraging an actual fight to break out)_ Sure. Go ahead and give Jean what’s coming to him.

 **Jean:** _(indignant)_ Hey! Aren’t you supposed to be neutral?

 **Erwin:** You started it.

**Eren:** Seeing as we’re being honest, I never realised until today that people like you existed.

 **Jean:** Oh? Enlighten me.

 **Eren:** You’re the most stuck-up horse face I’ve ever met!

 **Jean:** _(Smirking and raising a cupped hand to his ear)_ Ah... what is that I hear? Could it be the sweet sound of our host committing points suicide?

**Jean has a point. He’s still got to score you, Eren!**

**Historia:** _(Eren growls while Historia tugs on his sleeve)_ He’s trying to ruin your night. Don’t let him.

 **Hange:** He’s just jealous we’re not fawning over him.

 **Jean:** _(to Historia)_ Trust me princess, I am not jealous that you’re not trying to savage my hair. _(to Hange)_ Nor do I want anything to do with your offspring. I’m just trying to _educate_ the kid.

 **Hange:** You’re right Eren, he does have a horse face now you mention it. _(glaring at Jean)_ All you’ve done is complain and criticise every little thing he’s done.

 **Jean:** You just watched Eren insult _me_ and I get the blame!?

 **Historia:** It’s true, Jean. I’m surprised Eren remained cool for so long. So what if he doesn’t have your favourite wine or the ‘proper number’ of forks? Eren’s trying really hard and it’s his first time.

 **Jean:** Bet that’s what he told his girlfriend too.

 **Hange:** _(shoving Jean with some force)_ You are jealous! Lay off him already.

 **Jean:** _(smirking at Eren)_ Are you just going to keep standing there or do you always let the girls fight your battles?

_(Eren looks ready to launch himself over the table, but Historia gets up on tiptoes to whisper a stream of words desperately in his ear. His face slowly turns a less vicious red and his eyes lose their ferocity. He is soon serving drinks and Hange’s extra food calmly (if a little quietly) as if nothing happened._

 

* * *

 

I switch the recording function back on, having ignored Erwin and paused filming at the point when Eren started growling. As if seeing this new, fascinating side to the brat wasn’t enough, I was so stunned to discover that Eren thinks Jean has a horse face too that I forgot to resume filming for almost a minute after sweet pea the _brat-whisperer_ stepped in to calm things down.

I’ll be in shit when Erwin finds out about the missing footage. But seeing as he lets Mike get away with working stoned and Petra has deleted embarrassing footage on request countless times, I can deal with the boss-rage. All I need to do is remind Erwin that I’m the best damn cameraman on the team.

Although it’s not something I usually need to say out loud. My work speaks for itself. It’s not easy being hot on the action, swinging smoothly between the contestants in order to capture speech and reactions. Speaking of which, I really need to stay focused. I might have just missed the foghorn choking on a sip of wine – who does that? – and horse face thumping her on the back, perhaps realising that a dead contestant can’t score his night.

 

Nothing much interesting happens for a while. The brat’s entertainment is the usual corny crap; Dancing like loonies out on a day trip to the AC/DC version of _‘School’s Out’._ Although the inflatable guitars do provide everyone an outlet for their frustrations. Hange brutalises hers so bad that it needs counselling.

Now the entertainment’s over, Petra and Erwin are interviewing the guests upstairs again and I am meant to be reviewing the footage.

Except I’m not. Not exactly, anyway. I find the moment on my mind: 54:20 and play for 15 seconds. The brat’s face is in close-up, looking so fucking content while foghorn and sweet pea lay claim on his hair with their manicured nails.

I needed to see this again because at the time it was impossible to say exactly what I was feeling. But as I watch for the 2nd time, I’m as close to untangling how I feel about watching Eren being petted by two women (and fucking loving it) as I am to discovering the meaning of the universe.

By the 4th time, I’m using the theory that if you see something enough times, you become desensitised by it as an excuse to keep watching.

By the 6th time, I want to gut the person who said that. Because it’s a load of crap and I have the gut ache to prove it.

 

When the brat himself pokes his head from the kitchen and asks if I want tea, I want nothing more than to feel my usual, comfortable indifference. Instead, I am pretending I didn’t hear him like I’m the teenager, while scrutinising his spaced-out grin on the screen for the... how many times is this now?

“Levi! I said do you want a hot drink? Mike’s upstairs seeing what the others want.” _So it’s just us again. Great._

“What do you have?” I reply, finally tearing myself from the camera to look at the brat.

“A bit of everything,” he says, frowning momentarily at my look of disbelief. “Seriously. Come take a look.”

“I’m a bit busy for that.”

“Okay. Then just tell me what you want. Whatever it is, I have it.”

“Blood of goat.” I say, hoping that he’ll give me up for a lost cause. “Freshly sacrificed.”

“Damn.” Eren slaps his thighs. “I’m all outta goat.” He disappears and I think I’ve sufficiently weirded him out until he returns wielding a serrated knife.

“ _Human_ blood any good?” he says, holding the knife close to his forearm and withdrawing back into the kitchen before I can answer.

I have never moved so fast. I practically bash open the kitchen door to find Eren grinning victoriously at me, the knife nowhere to be seen.

“Hello, Levi,” he says brightly. “Now what’s your second choice _after_ goat’s blood?”

I should be chastising the brat for pulling such a stupid stunt (although it’s more concerning that I fell for it). Instead, I find myself being guided through what _is_ an impressive selection of teas. After much deliberation I choose the earl grey.

 

I am grimacing at the sight of Eren putting a splash of milk into his lemon and ginger tea when Mike returns.

“Erwin will have a black coffee,” he tells Eren. “Petra’s okay and I’ll have what Levi’s got. Anything that gets my thundercloud of a colleague to smile must be good!”

“You need glasses if you can’t tell the difference between wincing and smiling,” I protest. “Eren just ruined his tea by adding milk.”

“It’s better with milk...” Eren insists.

“No. It’s not.”

“How do you know if you haven’t even tried?”

“Intuition.”

“I call bullshit.” He holds out his mug. “Here. Try it.”

I try not to look as appalled as I feel but am saved the bother when Mike sticks his nose in. “Fat chance of that, kid” the blonde observes. “You’d never know it,” he winks, “but Levi’s a bit anal. All he can see right now is your slobber around that mug...”

“I don’t slobber!” Eren huffs, yet he withdraws the mug and doesn’t press the issue of me trying his adulterated tea. Which I wasn’t drinking even if it was in a fresh cup.

 

“Anywaaay,” Mike says. “I’ll be back for the drinks.”

“Where are you going?” I demand. Mike’s natural environment is a contestant’s kitchen. He doesn’t usually leave without reason.

But Mike just gives me this knowing look before fucking off. Leaving me and the brat alone. _Again._ I have the shittiest feeling that Petra isn’t the only one who’s realised I like the brat.

A feeling which is confirmed when I mutter an excuse to Eren about having work to do and see a yellow post-it note attached to my camera screen in Mike’s spidery handwriting.

_“I’m sure he’ll let you pet his hair too if you ask nicely.”_

I spend the next few minutes deciding in which slow and painful way I want Mike to die. I’m trying to find a happy medium between an acid bath (clean, but too quick) and getting eaten alive by mice (slow, but too messy). I decide on the mice and getting someone else to clean up when the soon-to-be-dead man waltzes back downstairs.

I make a pointed exercise of ripping the note to shreds in front of him, pleased to see him paling under my relentless death glare until retreats back into the kitchen.

“Fucking stay there.” I mutter, before realising he’ll be out in a minute to take Erwin his coffee.

...Erwin! There’s no way Mike would tell Erwin, right? Not that there’s anything to tell... Sure, Mike must have used the ‘history’ feature to nose out how many times I’ve viewed _that_ clip, but even if Mike says something I can just claim that there is something off about the footage and I was trying to work out what. Maybe. At a push. I’m not used to having to explain myself in the first place.

Fuck. Since when did having a simple crush get so complicated?

 

* * *

 

I’m mentally drained by the time Eren brings out his dessert of ‘Eton Messier’. What makes it mess _ier_ is that time old addition of popping candy to an otherwise dime-a-dozen dessert.

From the stratospheric sounds that foghorn is making, you’d think the brat has sprinkled his meringues with fairy dust. I swing the camera to catch another snort from horse face at the racket. When the shrieking dies down, I widen the view to take in the near-silent eating which follows.

The atmosphere wouldn’t be out of place in a wake and I can imagine how this will be narrated in the final cut. Unfunny puns about falling flat at the final hurdle. Unfunny not just because it’s cliché... but because Eren doesn’t deserve this awkwardness after doing pretty well so far. He’s clearly lost confidence since losing his temper with horse face earlier. The same horse face who is now eating without complaint, his grand plan to fuck up the host’s night clearly achieved.

But then... he could just be eating quietly because he’s a horse. And horses do love sugar. The brat _would_ glance at me with desperation at that exact moment, the very moment where my upper lip curls in a slight smile. And if I’m not mistaken, he mouths ‘thanks,’ before turning back to his guests looking a bit more like the determined Eren from earlier.

Five minutes later, the brat has turned the evening around and has everyone debating whether cats or dogs are best. Hange and Eren are firmly on team ‘dog’ while Historia and Jean insist that cats are better. When neither team can come to an agreement, a cream fight ensues with Eren somehow getting the worst of it.

This is the sort of thing Erwin calls ‘TV gold’ and I am honed on to every flick of spoon so that the blonde can’t complain about me missing _this_ action, at least. My focus wavers however when I catch a now cross-eyed brat licking cream from his nose. The moment he does, Hange scoops a _fistful_ and flings it straight at the host.

Jean says something hilarious about everyone being animals and the girls are in fits because he's the one _snorting_. By all rights my camera should be pointed their way at least a little.

But it isn’t.

Bits of cream are slowly tracking down the brat’s face. It should be disgusting.

But it isn’t.

And I really should pan out now.

But I can’t because Eren's tongue darts out to catch a few stray drips and against all reason I am zooming closer. Not on his tongue (I’m not that gross) but his crinkled eyes. The green that much brighter in laughter. Also that much more disastrous for my professionalism.

I should be conscious that these final 5 minutes of footage can’t be explained away to Erwin. Actually, I am conscious of that. I just don’t fucking care. Which is more than a little frightening seeing as my damn reliable camerawork is the reason Erwin keeps me about. God knows I suck at the people stuff and occasionally refuse to enter more unsanitary rooms.

It’s something of a relief when Erwin calls cut. He’s the only producer I know who calls cut by clapping both palms together. It's the familiarity of this sound cutting into my consciousness that reminds me to lean back from the camera as is expected of me.

“Brilliant work, guys!” Erwin praises the contestants. “We all know what happens now. Three, two, one...?”

“Taxis!” Hange and Historia say together.

“That’s right. Time to score young Eren here. Any last words before they do, kid?” He rubs a now frowning Eren heartily on the shoulder, oblivious that he doesn’t _like_ being called kid. I’m not ready to admit that even this gesture – which I’ve seen Erwin perform dozens of times before – makes me a little jealous.

 

At this point a lot of hosts ask the others not to be too harsh on them. Some go as far as to go through a play-by-play of everything which went well about their night. Not Eren though.

“Thanks for coming, guys,” he says. Even though Eren didn't invite them. “And please, be honest!” he adds. And then, incredibly, “I promise not to judge you when I watch this back, okay?”

That's a first. I've seen late attempts at flattery, poor attempts at bribery, promises and pleading from contestants. Not this. I raise an eyebrow in Eren's direction, but he's busy wishing Historia good night.

 

* * *

 

_(In the taxis)_

**Time to find out if Eren’s scored top marks. What do you think, Historia?**

**Historia:** it’s so difficult to score on the first night because you don’t know what’s to come. But because Eren’s a sweetheart and I loved his dessert... _(raises scorecard)_ Have an 8, sweetie!

**Not bad. Not bad. Hange, top of the class?  
**

**Hange:** I love Eren already (can you tell?)

**Really? I had no idea!**

**Hange:** But I can’t let love overrule my objectivity. Sooo... _(raises scorecard)_ A 7 for Eren. Because his food was yummy but a teensy bit safe.

**And... dare I ask, Jean?**

**Jean:** Right. My expectation’s weren’t that high to begin with. I can say that Eren surprised me, just not with his culinary expertise. He can count himself lucky that only I’ve knocked 1 point off for calling me a horse. Rule 101: don't insult your guests! _(raises scorecard)_ Has to be a 6.

 

**Tough luck, Eren. Our first host achieves a ‘could do better’ 21/30.**

**Join us tomorrow to see just what our local equestrian – sorry! – Jean Kirstein – has in store for his guests. One thing’s for sure. Expectations will be sky-high following his criticisms of Eren’s night.**

_(roll credits)_


	6. The Second Night: Squash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More the second morning, really. Erwin confront Levi and decides to assign him additional duties for the week. We find out how Eren keeps up his figure.

**The Second Night: Squash**

I’m sipping piss-poor coffee from a gym vending machine and hardly tasting it. Because the sight of Eren playing squash against a blonde tank of an opponent is all consuming. Eclipsing every thought other than _hot damn_. Perhaps with a side order of _fuck me_.

Eren is a creature of pure energy.  Athletic and completely engrossed in the match against his larger opponent. Sprung low on muscular thighs and primed to launch in any direction. Agile arms lend strength to each swing of the short racket, slapping the squash ball into the scoring zone. After winning a particularly intense rally, Eren punches the air, both sneakers taking off from the squeaky floor. The riding up of his sports vest leaves so much toned skin on view that it feels criminal to look. Not that I can look away from this beautiful display.

And no, I am _not_ perving on the brat. The gym manager is insisting that Eren is almost done, so I should wait here in the viewing gallery set above the courts. That’s why I have the ‘best view in the house’ as the manager puts it. I have to disagree. By far the best view is through the eyes of Eren’s brutish opponent.

I’ve long ago stopped hearing the gym manager’s chatter about how squash is the best sport for an all-round workout. I don’t need to hear it. The condition of the brat himself is testament to that.

In my crumbling defence I don’t even want to be here. Well, okay. I _do_ want to be here but that’s beside the point. I’m only watching Eren through this wide glass window because Erwin is forcing me to do all of Petra’s contestant interviews. Because I cocked up big time yesterday. In spectacular fashion.

 

* * *

 

 

**...Earlier that morning.**

 

Breakfast should be a rushed affair of coffee and stuffing our faces. The only drama deciding whether or not to risk the hot buffet which has been congealing in its own grease for god knows how long.

I should be so lucky.

This morning I’m at the centre of a conspiracy theory as my three colleagues take seats around me, effectively boxing me in around my corner seat. Mike and Petra ignore their plates of  greasy proteins in favour of smiling quietly at me. Erwin’s bright blue eyes meet mine, his eyebrows tuck down and his lips thin into a stern expression. _Not good._

I take a sip of coffee, clutching the mug defensively to my chest. When Erwin suddenly grins at me like I’ve won a fucking prize I almost spit out the hot liquid back out in his face.  Instead I endure the look because I _really_ can’t get fired again. And that’s likely to happen if I punch my producer in the teeth.

 “Levi, Levi, Levi. What am I going to do with you?”

“What?” Really. What the hell did I do now?

 

The blonde grins wolfishly. His next words are a new low. Even for that smarmy fuck.

“I had no idea Eren was your type,” he practically coos while I stare determinedly into my now empty mug. “I must ask, isn’t he a bit immature or perhaps that is part of his singular charm?”

“Are we really having this conversation?”

“You’re not denying it? This will save loads of time. I can skip right to _exhibit A_...” he scrolls through a folder on the Ipad he takes everywhere. “...This rather _juicy_ piece of filming.” Petra and Mike scoot closer around me while Erwin plays the video, ignoring the fact that I am slowly and deliberately buttering a triangle of toast, refusing to acknowledge anything which might be playing on the screen. I don’t need to look to know what it is anyway, because it struck me the moment that Erwin pulled the Ipad.

Erwin’s evidence is the long shot I took early last night. The one I meant to delete because I lingered way too long on the brat’s slim hips and delicious neck.

“One dud shot. So what?” I say, refilling my mug with black coffee and bringing it straight to my lips.

 

“What about this, then? Hmm?” Erwin wiggles his eyebrows and continues humming until I finally put down the mug, splashing some when I half-miss the coaster. It’s the moment where Jean wound Eren up over his main. The couple of minutes where I stupidly ignored Erwin’s instructions to keep filming and flicked pause in an effort to save the brat some embarrassment.

Shit. Erwin does not look happy now. Of course he’s not. Those missing minutes were the juiciest of the evening, now lost forever. Erwin’s bright teeth flash as he tuts. “What happened to ‘keep filming, hmm? Levi? It is not like you to disobey me.” Erwin’s hum is loaded with disapproval. There is not a huge age difference between us, but I may as well be a delinquent in the principal’s office for all the power Erwin has over me right now.

It’s sickening, really. The way that we take advantage of people’s moments of weakness. I discovered that Eren stated he has an anger problem on his application form. He trusts us with that information only to find us exploiting that for entertainment purposes at the earliest opportunity. It’s _wrong_. So wrong. The thought escapes my lips before I can think better of it.

“I was right to stop filming,” I say, meeting Erwin’s cool blue eyes with serious silver ones. “It was  wrong to film Eren like that.”

“Wow, Levi. You finally got that moral compass transplant,” Mike ventures, breaking the stiff silence between the producer and me.

“Like Erwin even has one,” I counter, causing Erwin to suck a thin breath between his teeth and hold up both large hands in defence.

“Hey. I uphold ethics, alright. Contestants can always file a complaint and all complaints are auctioned accordingly.”

“By throwing them all at me to sort out,” Petra adds.

“And once Petra’s honeyed them up a little, you top the deal with a few hundred bucks in compensation,” Mike adds.

 

Erwin rolls his eyes at his three employees. “Petra, you love making all their _ibble_ _wibble pwoblems_ all better. Don’t deny it! And Mike, don’t tell me you wouldn’t take the money too over 5 minutes of looking bad on national TV. As for you Levi, I hope you realise you’ve just made it worse for Eren. Don’t think that I’m giving up on showing the nation his Tasmanian devil impression.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” I say, not knowing quite why I’m bothering to defend Eren. He _did_ growl at a dinner guest, after all...

“Maybe not,” Erwin admits. “But he will _be_. And I need to know you’ll do your job when the kid has his next temper tantrum, playground crush or not.”

“Of course,” I grit out, hacking apart a shitty hash brown because I can’t justify sticking the knife into my producer’s smug face.

“That’s settled then! And for losing me that footage... you’re doing all the pre-dinner interviews for the rest of this week.

“But they’re Petras!” “But they’re mine!” we protest simultaneously. It’s true that Petra always does these interviews. She genuinely enjoys getting to know the contestants one-on-one and Erwin writes her out question cards so she has to be at least a _little_ ruthless.

“If this is too much of a challenge...” Erwin chides, eyes only for me. It’s not a challenge and Erwin knows it. These interviews basically involve showing the contestants the night’s menu and asking what they think about the host. It’s just a pain, because I already have to get to the contestant’s home early to get the house shots in before the guests arrive.

“Alright. As if I have a choice.”

Erwin  flicks a document my way, causing me to snatch it mid-air before it lands in my plate.

“You get to spend an extra half hour ogling the green-eyed wonder. Anyone would think you’d be a little more grateful.”

“Shut up.” I eclipse Erwin’s shit-eating grin by scanning the documents for details on where the interviews for each contestant are taking place. My heart drops into my stomach when I see where I’m meeting Eren this morning. And what he’s doing. My pulse is betraying me already as I think about the brat in shorts.

“Levi, Levi, _Levi_. You’re usually far more creative than this.” Erwin shakes his head and tuts, all without losing an inch of his damn grin.

“What do I have to do to get out of this?” I counter darkly.

“Why don’t you just thank me already for securing you more time with your most favourite contestant?” Erwin lets out a bark of a laugh while Mike and Petra follow suit. Turns out my colleagues are a pack of well disguised hyenas.

“Thanks,” I drawl sarcastically at my boss. “For helping me realise that murdering you in your sleep is just too kind.”

 

* * *

 

 

 

Squash isn’t a game I am familiar with but it is simple enough to follow: hit the ball with a racket between the scoring lines, try to make your opponent hit ‘out’. I suppose it’s a bit like tennis without nets. After a furiously-fought rally which the burly blonde won, both players retreat to separate corners of the court to chug water.

I realise with embarrassment that my nose is almost pressed to the glass when the blonde opponent notices and points me out to Eren. The half a second it takes the flushed brunette to spot me gives me a chance to lean away from the glass a little. But no amount of time could have prepared me for the ecstatic look on Eren’s face. He waves at me with both arms - tch, I’m not that far away - holds up five fingers then points upwards: _I’ll be up in 5 minutes._ I nod in acknowledgement, glad that the soundproofing of the viewing gallery eliminates the need to speak.

 Both players are still red and sweating after their short rest. The score must be close because even through the glass I sense the atmosphere has changed. Eren passes the squash racket restlessly from hand to hand while waiting for his opponent to serve. And when the larger man does, it’s a furious shot. Eren dives to return. His opponent lands another belter. Watching the ball bounce around the small court becomes dizzying – and frankly terrifying – when Eren is forced to bend backwards ‘Matrix’ style to avoid a blow to the skull.

My heart catches in my throat and both palms press unashamedly against the glass when Eren slips, still not on his feet when the ball rebounds low and straight towards him. The racket flicks up at the last moment to catch the ball and I remember to breathe. Thankfully, that was the final shot. Eren’s opponent yanks him up with one hand and they share a slick handshake before disappearing into what had better be the shower rooms.

If that brat even thinks about coming up here all fucking sweaty then I will frogmarch him to soap and water myself.

Thankfully, Eren appears upstairs pink and clean from the shower and wearing fresh clothes. A thin white towel is draped around his shoulders and his hair is still damp and sticking up. The gym manager suggests we conduct the interview in the viewing gallery so has brought up two chairs and is now locking the door, leaving us to it.

 

I take a seat and level the camera but do not turn it on yet.

Eren sits with his legs splayed informally. He wears a pair of longer shorts than before and a white polo with the first three buttons undone, exposing a neck now very pink from the  shower. Would that slip of skin taste of soap? I can smell a faint buttery smell from here. Could that be his shampoo?

Right. Not things I should be thinking about. I return my attention to readjusting the height of the tripod.

“Hey,” Eren says. “Sorry you had to see me lose. I don’t lose that much. Reiner’s one of the only guys who can beat me. Him and Annie are like my Achilles heels.”

“Annie?” I arch an eyebrow in amusement, choosing not to berate him about Achilles having only one legendary dud heel.”

“She kicks everyone’s ass at everything. I bet she’d even kick yours.”

“Not likely.”

“Someone’s confident. So what sports are you into?”

“I don’t, really...”

“Oh come on. You don’t get to looking like _that_ without working out.... do you?” Shit, I think the brat just paid me a compliment. And what am I doing? I’m sitting here wondering how to get this ‘interview’ going the way it should be. Yes, I’m out of practice but any dumbass could tell you that the man with the camera should be asking the questions, not the gorgeous contestant who wants to know about my physical hobbies.

“I kick-box.”

“Wow! That’s so cool. I love martial arts. Used to do a bit of judo. But if I’m honest I lacked a bit of the... uhm...”

“Discipline,” I venture.

“Hah. How’d you guess?”

“Tch. We had best get on with this.” I say, making a show of checking the camera.

I’m shocked to discover that there actually is a problem when I glance into the viewfinder to see pitch black. “What the...?” I mutter as I try to figure out the fault, methodically pinching each wire and twiddling each connection until...

“Uh... I’m not an expert but I think that,” Eren is pointing at the lens, “needs to come off.” I get up to investigate and swallow back a string of curses. I’ve left the fucking lens cap on. I pry it off under Eren’s watchful gaze. He’s shifting a little in the chair now, probably in reaction to the dark aura I am emitting. At least he’s not likely to ask me any more irrelevant questions. Time to get this bloody interview started. There are two more to do, after all.

 

Keeping things simple, I tell Eren we are starting and press record. Erwin’s hand-written questions are in my other hand.

“So, Eren. What are you expecting from Jean tonight?”

“Uhm... Jean will just be Jean, I guess.” That won’t do. I need to improvise a little here.

“What sort of night do you think he will deliver?”

“I think he’ll be out to impress us. I mean, I tried to do that a bit, but it was more about giving the guys a good night.”

“Are you looking forward to tonight?”

“I look forward to seeing everyone again.”

“ _Everyone_?” I prompt.

“Hange and Historia are amazing. I think we haven’t seen the best of Jean yet... maybe he was just nervous.”

“Do you think Jean is competition for you?”

“I imagine he will be an amazing host and out to impress us any way he can, so yeah.” Eren’s answers are a bit shit but I am frankly beyond caring now, still reeling from having left the lens cap on for the first time in years. It's challenge enough to keep the camera straight.

I hand Eren a copy of the menu and get his opinion, relieved at Eren’s strong reactions, meaning there is no need to prompt him. I too was amused by the pretentiousness of horse face’s menu when I first read it:

**Starter: Lobster Bisque with Golden Pancetta Flakes**

**Main: Venison Wellington, with Port and Currant Jus and Potato Fondant**

**Dessert: Millionaire’s Soufflé**

**Dress Code: Black Tie**

The brat's reactions do have one negative though. Clear, bright laughter which makes his eyes all that more dazzling. I close my eyes tightly for a few moments to try a sweep out of my short term memory. But it doesn't work and when I open my eyes I'm alarmed to see Eren has scooted forward in his chair forward and is holding the menu back out towards me.

"Tell me this made you laugh too! Come on, Levi!" Hearing my name snaps me back into my senses.

"Alright, brat. We all had a chuckle over 'golden pancetta flakes," I admit. But Eren does not look satisfied with my answer. I pointedly ask the next of Erwin's questions until I have everything I need there is no reason to stay and talk. Indeed, there are another two of these to do. I inform Eren that the taxi will pick him up from home at 5:30pm and pretend I don’t hear him when he asks what I’m doing next.

What I’m doing next, brat, is trying to clear my mind of you and your bright green eyes, which I fear might be burned into my retinas.


	7. The Second Night: Roses and Rosé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean is a very attentive host with a house as posh as his menu. Levi struggles to maintain his usual standards of camera work.

**The Second Night: Roses and Rosé**

**It’s the second night in Trost and bookies owner Jean Kirstein is leaving nothing to chance when it comes to his evening. Our host has spent the morning buying luxury ingredients for his venison wellington main which he will stuff with a white truffle and wild mushroom paste. _Very fancy_. But will Jean’s guests appreciate it?**

 

 **Jean:** _(deftly chopping mushrooms and truffles)_ Here I am going to all this effort when I could probably get away with serving pub grub and cheap wine. I won’t pretend and say I only want to give them an amazing night. I’m hitting the mark and going for gold.

**Hold your horses Jean, it’s your guests who will be the judge of that.**

I mean, just look at this! _(he holds up a prime cut of venison_ ) This beauty was prancing in the woods only yesterday. You can’t get better than that.

**Here’s hoping none of your guests have watched Bambi lately...**

_(Jean stuffs the venison with a truffle and mushroom mix and rolls tightly, wrapping in cling film to be covered in pastry and cooked later. He produces an expensive bottle of port and adds generous amounts to a saucepan filled with currants.)_

**Jean:** _(wincing as he pours the port)_ This hurts more than you realise but even I’m not perfect. _(he winks) I_ admit to forgetting to buy some cheap port for this. Speaking of which, need to find a few bottles in the wine cellar which I don’t mind parting with. _(smirking slyly)_ My guests will need _something_ to drown their sorrows once they realise I am obliterating their chances of winning.

**It could be _you_ drowning your sorrows later if your soufflé fails to rise to the occasion. Yes, our host is bravely choosing to serve that most risky of desserts tonight, which will be prepared from scratch when the guests arrive. All Jean can do for now is lay the table and get suitably attired for his ‘sophisticated’ black tie evening. **

 

_Jean poses smugly for the camera wearing a fitted black tuxedo complete with red bowtie. A matching handkerchief pokes neatly from his breast pocket and his black shoes are shined to perfection._

**Jean:** _(rubbing his hands together)_ I am so ready to win this.

 **_Huh?_ ** **A red bowtie? That’s not a black tie, Jean...**

 **Jean:** Red’s a lucky colour for me. _(he shrugs)_ Not that I really need it.

**Debateable!**

_Heavy iron door knocker sounds._

_THUD. THUD._

 

 **Time to see if Jean can walk the walk (he can certainly talk the talk) because the closest Trost has to a Disney princess** **at the door. It’s Historia.**

_She is wearing a floor length dress in shimmering pearl pink, a silver satin bolero, and matching silk gloves. She appears awestruck at Jean’s glamorous Tudor manor house._

**Jean:** _(kissing her hand)_ My darling Historia, you are truly radiant. Please, come in. Can I take your bolero?

 **Historia:** _(sighing whimsically and handing him the bolero_ ) Thank you, Jean. You have a beautiful home and it’s a rare thing to find a man who knows what a bolero is. Here, I got you this.

 **Jean:** _(wrinkling his nose then flashing a huge fake smile as he turns the bottle in his hands)_ It’s perfect.

 **Historia:** _(Relieved sigh, then Historia’s mouth drops open on reaching the richly decorated entrance hall complete with candle chandelier)_ Oh! This is amazing. I feel like Mr Darcy should be joining us.

 **Jean:** _(pretending offence, fooling Historia)_ Am I not a gentleman enough for you?

 **Historia:** That’s not what I— _(seeing his spreading smirk and taking his arm roughly)_ A proper gentleman doesn’t play around like that.

 **Jean:** At least tell me I’m more dignified than Eren Yeager.

 **Historia:** I could tell you a hundred things you would like to hear. Doesn’t make any of it true.

 **Jean:** _(a hand to his heart)_ Ouch.

 **Historia:** You’re as much a gentleman as you are a drama queen.

 **Jean:** You know, _(whispering)_ although perhaps we should acquaint Mr Darcy with Eren. Teach that kid some manners.

 **Historia:** _(elbowing him and pointing a finger)_ Stop it. Eren’s lovely just the way he is. _(looking dreamy)_ If we’re honest he’s more man than either of us know what to do with.

_Jean’s wears an expression of horror, his cheeks flare and he coughs into his fist while Historia stands by, a picture of innocence._

 

**Historia! It’s terrible manners to make the host blush.**

**Jean:** _(still coughing)_ Historia dear, I have no idea what you mean.

 **Historia:** _(giggling against a gloved hand)_ I’m sorry. Did you think Hange and I didn’t notice that you felt a little left out when we were petting Eren last night?

 **Jean:** _(still smiling, waving a hand to dismiss the thought)_ You, dear lady, are mistaken. Now, can I get you a flute of champagne?

**That's it, Jean. Change the topic before your face matches your bowtie.**

 

 **Historia:** _(waving a hand casually in mockery of his gesture)_ _Right._ And yes. Champagne would be splendid.

 **Jean:** A splendid champagne it is! ( _Jean claps dramatically and a freckled, dark-haired waiter appears with a platter of champagne flutes)_ Marco here will look after you.

 

_THUD. THUD._

**It’s double-trouble, Hange and Eren at the door!**

 

_Jean answers the door holding a near empty flute of champagne._

**Jean:** Hange, Eren! Welcome to my home. _(Hange is wearing a deep crimson dress with black and red high heels and a russet faux fur wrap while Eren is wearing a lilac button up shirt, with black suit jacket and tie. A blue moon rose pokes from his buttonhole and he holds a matching bouquet of the silvery purple roses tied with a black velvet ribbon. Jean arches an eyebrow at the bouquet before assuming a wide grin and gesturing them inside enthusiastically._

 **Hange:** Ooh, is that what I think it is? Is it? _(she thrusts a bottle into Jean’s free hand and rushes towards a suit of armour in the hallway)_

_Squeak! Clang! Screeeech!_

**Jean:** _(Imploring)_ It’s an antique. So _please_ be careful.

 **Hange:** _(voice echoing through the now open visor)_ I’m just checking it’s real... I’m thinking late medieval.

 **Jean:** _(Gently hooking her elbow and guiding her head from the visor)_ Very good! Now _please_ , head straight on through. _(He is clearly trying to remain composed as he points firmly into the entrance hall. He exhales deeply when Hange sees Historia, leaving Jean and Eren in the hall.)_

 

 **Eren:** _(putting a gentle hand on Jean’s shoulder)_ Hah... Hange messed around with my stuff too. It took me an hour to find _this_! _(he smooths a hand along his tie and points to Jean’s red bowtie, frowning)_ I thought you said the dress code was black tie...

 **Jean:** It is. I couldn’t run the risk of you turning up in sneakers.

 **Eren:** _(rubbing the back of his neck)_ Hah. I almost did. But that doesn’t explain your red bowtie.

 **Jean:** It’s my lucky colour.

 

 **Eren:** Okay. _(a somewhat awkward silence passes until Eren remembers the rose bouquet, handing it to Jean._ ) These are for you, by the way.

 **Jean:** _(smirking playfully)_ Roses, Eren? You do know I only turned up with flowers last night because I guessed you were a chick? _(plucking a rose from the bouquet and poking Eren in the chest with it. Silvery petals drip down his suit jacket to fall on the floor)_

 **Eren:** _(narrowing his eyes and reaching for the bouquet)_ If you don’t want them—

 **Jean:** That would be most ungracious of me. _(swiftly moving the bouquet behind him before Eren can get near)_

 **Eren:** _(looking sideways at Jean for a moment)_ Alright... I just wasn’t confident enough buying you alcohol knowing you’re a...uhm... _conifer_?

**Nice try, Eren.**

**Eren:** No... _(he reddens on realising his mistake)_ a _corgi-..._ what’s that posh word for expert?

 **Jean:** Connoisseur. _(he chuckles lightly)_ Speaking of which, come along. _(he places a light hand at the small of Eren’s back)_ You’re about to sample the best champagne you’ve ever tasted. And I suppose I should find a vase for these.

 

* * *

 

Unexpectedly finding yourself in a posh environment does things to ordinary people. In this case, it has Jean’s guests eating out of his hands.

They are currently debating whether Jean has gilded bath taps. The host watches the exchange with amusement, choosing to disclose nothing while Hange insists that she simply _has_ to know, making to leave the table. Historia somehow keeps her in the dining room. All three share expressions of awe as they continue to question Jean on his grand home, lapping up his smug replies like cats with cream.

I too might be impressed if I didn’t hate historic houses like Jean’s with a passion. The dirt you can’t see and reach to clean is that much more abhorrent to me than the dirt you know about and can tackle accordingly. I glance directly up from my position at the foot of the dining table and suppress a shudder. Gossamer strands of spider webs cling to the chandelier which is now not nearly high enough for comfort.

Not to mention that I can’t sit in the chair Jean has left beside my camera. It might once have been padded with crimson velvet. Now the pale material would need an hour of beating before putting my backside anywhere near it. I shoved the offending furniture aside with my boot earlier, crouching back down in front of the camera and accepting the probable back ache later. I’ll take discomfort over sitting on Jean’s dusty chairs any day. Antique simply means that the item in question has seen decades of grime.

 

What can be said for Jean is that he sets a half decent table. Sophisticated yet not over stated. Sets of silverware rest neatly on black linen napkins. Cut crystal glasses and tall white candles lend to the formal atmosphere the host is aiming for. There is also the somewhat surprising addition of Eren’s roses, which Jean has placed in a tall black vase at the centre of the table.

The silvery purple roses add a subtle splash of colour against the black veined marble. But I still prefer the single rose against Eren’s black suit jacket, where it matches his button down shirt perfectly. I am trying to decide whether the shirt is more grey or lilac when the brat notices the camera is honed in on his chest. He winks deliberately in my direction and I am eternally grateful that he can’t see the involuntary quirk of my lips.

Historia and Hange are chatting on the other side of the table. I should be tracking them. But I am not. Because the warmth in Eren’s expression is as clear as the crystal champagne flute he now sips from as he gazes straight into the lens. _Fuck._ Those eyes are gorgeous. And dangerous. I want nothing more than to plunge unreservedly into those twin, emerald pools. No amount of professional zoom can make up for the fact that I am discovering golden flecks at the edge of Eren’s irises through a lens and not by being close enough to claim his softly smiling lips.

No. I need to stop this. My sense of time must be skewed because there’s no way that Eren is still looking heatedly in my direction. There is no way he is slowly, deliberately running his tongue over his upper teeth. No fucking way he just fucking _winked_ at me.

I decide to make a compromise, swinging the camera smoothly to belatedly pick up some Historia and Hange’s conversation on the other side of the table while pulling away from the viewfinder to catch Eren’s eyes with my own for a brief second.

I am too late. My eyes meet a head of brunette hair. Lovely, yes. But not the passionate green eyes I was hoping to find. Because Jean chooses this moment to appropriate the brunette’s attention by asking how Eren liked his game room. Now the  two are talking animatedly as they discover a shared passion for retro arcade games. Of course Jean has an enviable collection of in his so-called game room. Fucking rich ass.

 

A few minutes later the conversation has moved on while I am still fixated on the brunette now shifting subtly in his chair. He is doing well in hiding it, but I notice a tension in Eren which suggests he is out of his comfort zone.

He occasionally seeks out Petra who is sitting on the other side of the room with Mike, and Erwin, who is situated between the kitchen door and the table.

I wait for Eren to look straight into my camera again. This time I am ready to meet his vivid greens with my silvers. I don’t know quite what I want to say with expression alone. But it’s a start.

Tense with anticipation, I wait patiently while Eren fiddles with the edge of a napkin, glances at Petra who smiles with soft encouragement, wraps his fingers inelegantly around the wine glass and takes small sips which he probably thinks are delicate but in reality make him look uncomfortable.

He looks at Mike, Erwin, Petra again. Even Marco.

Everyone but me.

Sure, he is not licking his lips at my colleagues. But that means nothing, because five minutes pass and I am forced to accept that his lips must have been dry earlier. _Really fucking dry_. And Eren can’t have been looking straight through the camera to me with that heated expression. He must have been daydreaming. Yes. It would be just like the brat to fucking daydream with such intensity in his features.

The realisation that Eren thinks nothing much of me hits stronger than I expect. The sensation settles on my chest, something heavy and tight like nausea.

I focus on other things to quell the ugly sensation. Why _is_ Eren looking so uncomfortable? Perhaps it is that Jean stole the seat next to him before the girls could get a look in. Although the two are getting on well now, he could be cautious of getting worked up again. Or perhaps he is afraid of acting uncivilised in what must seem like a palace of opulence. He is used to an apartment with no garden, not a manor house with a tree lined drive and wrought iron gate.

  _Perhaps_ it would be healthiest to stop thinking about Eren altogether  and turn the camera to foghorn, who is enthusiastically answering sweet pea’s question: “isn’t it hard to fight in a full suit or armour?” by explaining every pro and con of every type of armour she knows of.

 

I guarantee that no one is more bored than I am for the next two minutes as the camera rolls. She gets even more enthusiastic when it comes to what I think is meant to be a conclusion, waving a sleeve dangerously close to the open flame of a nearby candle. “So, leather armour is most practical but near useless against a bladed weapon and offering minimal shock absorption. Full plate armour is most effective while on horseback due to restrictive movements and fatigue. I noticed some swords on the way in. Now medieval weaponry is a fascinating sub—”

“I’m sure it is!” Jean says loudly, bringing foghorn to a reluctant halt. “Marco, the chardonnay, please.” I am surprised it takes this long for horse face to intervene. Hange is pouting somewhat while the freckled waiter pours the wine. Jean explains how beautifully it will compliment his starter and as the others listen to his pompous drivel with rapt expressions I begin to doubt whether their combined intelligence amounts to one average IQ score.

“Now,” Jean concludes. “It’s about time I put all my love into your first course of the evening.”

“Mmm, tasty love,” Hange blurts, to joint laughter from the others.

“I should hope so,” Jean chuckles, leaving his guests to entertain themselves.

He winks at Marco on the way out. I wonder not for the first time whether Jean knows more of Marco than he lets on. Petra would know. She talks to everyone and has a rare talent for extracting the truth without resorting to dirty tactics (opposed to Erwin).

 

While Jean is in the kitchen I smoothly follow yet _more_ conversation on Jean’s place. The topic returns to Jean’s game room upstairs, which the guests explored earlier. It is filled with an impressive collection of retro machines from classic arcade pacman to various pinball machines. Hange is insisting that console games are nowhere near as challenging as the 80s classics. Eren responds that playing COD on veteran will change her opinion.

Is he’s serious? I only play campaigns on Veteren these days and hold an enviable rank in multiplayer. Actually, thinking about it, I shouldn’t be too shocked if Eren sucks at videogames. He doesn’t strike me as the patient type, which as surprising as it might sound is an essential skill if you want to move beyond simple competence into ‘shadow of death’ league. By the time that Historia is admitting to once owning every Sims expansion pack known to man, my mind is back wandering into dangerous waters.

Is this position at the foot of the table a blessing or a curse? On the one hand I am closer to Eren than any of my colleagues. The brat scrubs up insanely well for a scruffy-haired 18 year old.

Yet this proximity is slowly but surely becoming a problem. Because I assured Erwin with all confidence that my – ahem - attraction will not affect my camerawork. Yet I am already affording the brat too much camera time and am ashamed to say that I completely miss Hange pulling faces into the back of a spoon in favour of filming Eren’s reaction to said event. Eren’s face breaking into a blinding smile for no apparent reason is hardly useful footage, unless edited on to the end of someone’s god-awful joke. Or worse, a particularly crude comment (yes, Erwin actually does that).

 And again, I should be swinging immediately to Jean when the door to my right squeaks and savoury aromas waft through the dining room. But my camera is occupied on catching a close up of Eren running his fingers absently through his hair.

He sees Jean and immediately makes the pointless attempt of smoothing his brunette locks.

Why does he bother? And what did Jean just whisper in his ear as he serves what smells like a successful lobster bisque?

After the initial fuss over Jean’s ridiculous addition of pancetta pieces draped in edible gold leaf, the table is quiet with sounds of satisfied eating.

My mind wanders. What would it take to tame Eren’s hair? Would I even want to? I try to decide whether his hair looks better at this moment, sweeping mainly in the forwards direction, a slight sheen of gel visible against the rich brown or yesterday, where he left it messy. Then I recall this morning. Eren freshly showered, hair still damp and alluringly clean-smelling. Okay. This is a pointless contest. Post-shower hair wins hands down.

A groan from Jean snaps back my attention and I suppress releasing a sound of my own on seeing Eren tucking his napkin into his shirt like he’s ordered ribs at a diner. Jean predictably deals with the situation by first rolling his eyes. I focus on Jean, waiting for the obnoxious comment. What I don’t expect is for Jean to then pry said napkin from Eren’s shirt and smooth it correctly over Eren’s lap. Nor am I prepared to witness what can only be deemed an act of kindness when Jean wordlessly brushes his fingers over Eren’s hand to guide him from the dessert spoon to the soup spoon.

Eren’s smile in thanks has me gripping the camera with more force than is strictly necessary.

 

I am thankful for the distraction when the girls express their delight over the lobster bisque. Historia claims she feels like royalty while Hange wants to know the method Jean used in _full_ detail, leaving absolutely nothing out. Jean is more than happy to oblige in the latter.

The waiter, Marco, is topping up glasses of the rich chardonnay which he has paired with his lobster when Jean notices Eren has barely touched his glass.

 

“Not to your taste?” Jean diligently observes.

“I... uhm.”

“You _do_ drink?” He raises a firm eyebrow.

“Yeah... It’s just a bit rich for me.” He speaks into the glass, cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. Jeez. What a thing to get worked up over.

“Yes, that happens when a wine is properly aged.” Jean smirks while Eren offers an apology, this time to his face.

“Nonsense! I will find you something more to your taste.” Jean’s light brown eyes light up. “I think I have just the thing! Bear with me _one moment_.” Jean springs up from his seat and returns a few minutes later with two bottles. He unscrews the first bottle and pours Eren a fresh glass of pink wine, bringing it immediately to Eren’s nose. He sniffs.

“What is it?”

“2012 Moscato. A sweet and light Rosé. Aromas of mandarin with vanilla and jasmine notes.”

Eren doesn’t so much sip the wine as inhale it, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s delicious!”

“Bingo.” Jean tops up his glass. I can feel the smugness radiating from him like a summer heat wave.

 

 

 

I sincerely hope that Jean is just being an attentive host because the alternative is making my head spin.

To my growing disdain, Eren looks much more comfortable now, if a little flushed from _one_ glass of wine and a champagne sampler. I can only watch as Eren appears to lap up Jean’s attentions and I have no way to block out the sheer awe in his voice when he comments on horse face’s starter.

“Jean, this is amazing,” Eren states between mouthfuls. It must be true for the others too because the table is filled with the satisfied sounds of eating. Even Hange is quiet except for her slurping. At least until she finishes the starter and blasts Jean with compliments.

Isn’t it obvious that Jean is putting on all this flattery for points? He calmly dealt with Hange when she caught her sleeve alight on a candle and laughed heartily when Eren joked that Jean has the hots for the waiter. Not to mention that he can’t go 5 minutes without complimenting Historia on some small detail of her outfit.

“The best is yet to come,” Jean promises, clearing the plates and excusing himself once more to prepare the main course. This is the cue to take a break. Erwin springs up from his chair to call cut and I make a sharp exit, thinking to make use of the upstairs bathroom where I’m least likely to be disturbed.


	8. The Second Night: Game On.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the break between the starter and main course, Eren decides to go find his favourite camera man.
> 
> In the absence of cameras and colleagues, Levi is forced to have a real conversation with Eren.

**The Second Night: Game On**

 

It turns out Jean does indeed have gilded bath taps; a gaudy pair of golden phoenixes which preside over a round, sunken bath. It is the kind capable of holding two people at once. A vivid mental image of Jean and Eren up to their necks in a bubble bath has me eternally thankful that the host isn’t including a hot tub in tonight’s schedule. Because Eren would be ecstatic and I honestly don’t know how I would deal with Jean’s smugness while Eren fuels his already over inflated ego with grateful smiles. While half naked.

 _Fuck._ I need to get a grip. It’s clean in here, at least.

Observing that helps to dissolve the image of Eren in swimming trunks. The stack of fluffy towels are still a brilliant white and the ornate mirror is polished to perfection. I wash my hands under Jean's gilded taps in peace, taking time to dry them thoroughly and leaving the bathroom comfortable in the knowledge that I am unlikely to be bothered by anyone for a while. Petra will not yet be done interviewing the contestants and Mike is surely filming Jean whipping up his next charm offensive on a plate. I have a few minutes to myself.

Or so I thought.

 

A thunder of footsteps is all the warning I get before Eren stands a few meters away, smiling warmly as he perches on the oak banister.

“Bathroom’s free.” I assume that’s what he wants.

“Thanks!” I can’t help but look as Eren springs fluidly to his full height. He is almost at the bathroom door when he turns to face me. “But I don’t want the bathroom.”

 _Right._ Then what exactly _does_ he want? I tell myself that I just imagined the predatory note in his stride as he turned on his heel towards me. I armour myself in the knowledge that he has taken time tonight to seek out each of my colleagues in turn. That’s all this is. The brat _did_ spend 10 minutes with Mike debating whether French or English mustard is best (French, obviously.)

Any moment now he will come out with some innocently random question or comment.

Or perhaps not. He wears a soft, serious expression. The same as he wore last night when we spoke in his kitchen. His words to me back then bounce around insistently in my mind, until I can think of nothing else:

 

_I don’t mind that you have a crush on me._

 

I can’t take the same hopeful meaning from the words which I did while back in Eren’s kitchen. Back then, I considered that he might – just might – be hinting at some mutual attraction. Not that it matters if he was, because he is a contestant and we have barely two-and-a-half evenings left before packing up to the next town, then the next. And so the great monotonous circle of filming continues for two more _delightful_ months.

 

Looking at Eren now, I realise that his words for the simple kindness they are. He 'doesn’t mind' if I have a crush on him because he is a kind person. That's why he is up here now. Because he is a kind person and can't bear leaving anyone out - even if that someone deliberately tries to be. He's here to be _kind_. Not because he wants to make out with me.

_I think._

 

It’s nearly impossible to think straight with barely a meter between us. Without a camera or colleagues overshadowing, this conversation suddenly feels nerve-wrackingly real.

“Eren, why are you up here?” I manage. The question initially seems to stump the teen. He shifts restlessly from foot to foot, taking a deep breath as if he needs more oxygen to say what he clearly wants to from the worried look on his face.

 “You look nice tonight,” he finally states, proceeding to eat me up with his eyes. Now, I don’t believe I am imagining that, although It’s difficult to tell when I am trying to avoid said eyes, which are destined to bring me down if I look into them too long. Either way, there is one clear thought in response to Eren’s comment.

_Unbelievable._

 Either Eren is not as honest as I believe and this is some cruel joke, or he got hit in the head by a squash ball this morning. _I_ _look nice_ says this drop-dead gorgeous young man in a dinner suit.  I don’t bother to hide my scepticism and am about to roll my eyes when Eren bites his bottom lip nervously, causing me to take a dramatic rethink.

 

I have been assuming this conversation is simply the brat doing what he does: being the nice guy. He’s that sort of person who can’t help but get on with everyone. It now strikes me that Eren’s comment has innocent explanation. I am wearing a dress blazer after all rather than the usual sweater or polo. I do look smarter than usual. Still, that would make more sense for Petra to say, who has known me for months and understands what I usually wear. Did we really only meet Eren yesterday? It feels like far longer.

What puzzles me most is Eren’s apparent restlessness as he continues to worry his lip and toys with putting his hands into his pockets. I realise that I need to take a leaf out of his book. Say something nice.

“Scrub up pretty well yourself.” This at least elicits a small smile. “For a rotten brat.”

If I could kick myself in the teeth, I would.  I can’t maintain ‘nice’ for two damn sentences! I reluctantly look up to assess the damage.

 

_What in hell?_

Eren grins broadly as if I’ve just paid him the highest compliment, an expression which lights up his eyes. I recognise this expression. It is the same satisfied one which spread across his features while he was being dually petted yesterday by Hange and Historia.

Now I’m more confused than ever. Does he have a thing for a bad attitude? And if so, _how_? How can this be the same brat who has been lapping up Jean’s flattery for the last hour? How can this be the same brat who fell into this near-blissful state while being petted by two women?

Most confounding of all; How is he still wearing that look while boring straight into me with those brutally beautiful eyes, which are currently lidded with pure pleasure?

“I’m glad you like me this way.” He speaks so softly that I find myself leaning closer to hear. Eren mimics the action, although there’s no reason for him to do so.

_Is there?_

His addictive green eyes reveal the truth. Twin beacons slicing through the fog of doubt which has clouded my mind since yesterday.

He wants me. Perhaps as much as I want him.

The thirst in Eren’s eyes is clear as his fingers roam shamelessly over my mine, accompanied by the most focused expression I have yet seen him wear. My slightly parted lips prickle as if touched when his gaze locks there for a few seconds.

I follow his progress down, absorbing the bare flesh at my neck and taking an unseemly gulp of air when I somehow forget to breathe. Not that it particularly matters if I stop breathing. Eren could probably administer CPR instructions in his sleep. I visualise laying between Eren’s knees while he pumps my chest with strong fists. I almost jump when Eren makes contact, rubbing lazy circles into the backs of my hands with his thumbs. I clasp his fingers in my own, relishing in their softness.

I am vaguely aware of smiling like an idiot. Truthfully, I could die happy right now.

Without warning, both of Eren’s hands leave mine to glide down my sides, coming to rest against my hips.

 _Okay._ Perhaps I wouldn’t be happy dying _right now_. Maybe later.

 

“Greedy brat,” I say. Taking delight when the confused ‘o’ of Eren’s mouth spreads into a feral grin as I twirl a finger around a button on his lilac shirt.

He squeaks adorably when I tug Eren’s warm weight to my chest, looping my arms easily around the small of his back. Rippling breaths send warm prickles over my neck and electricity through my veins.

“Hey! I was enjoying the view,” he mutters half-heartedly into my shoulder. All while his fingers trail from hips to ribs and back again in soft, fluid movements. It should be illegal for the gliding of Eren’s fingertips to feel _this good_ through a shirt.

“Tch.” I release my entwined fingers from around his back, gripping his shirt on both sides just under the ribs and holding the now disgruntled teen out at arm’s length. “Better?” I ask in a mock-serious tone. This elicits a low growl which does nothing at all for Eren’s current situation and everything for my resolve to tease him further.

He struggles and tries to shoulder forward while I shake my head slowly, tightening my grip on the lilac material of his shirt. “Greedy _and_ impatient,” I observe wryly, taking silent delight when Eren ducks in a charged effort to break free. I would let him. But this is far too much fun.

 

“You’re cheating!” Eren declares breathlessly, still straining his upper body in a vain attempt to reach me. By now I’m half tempted to let him go just to see what he will do. “I could break free,” he insists.

“Really?” I doubt it.

“I just don’t want to rip this shirt.”

I release a single thumb and forefinger without compromising my hold to rub small circles into the soft material. The brat's eyes rest on my lips as I hum in approval. “It is a nice shirt.”

“Exactly! So you’ll let me go?”

“I’ll think about it.”

 

Eren sighs dramatically; the muscles at his abdomen which were tense a moment go now pliant beneath my fingertips. His shoulders slump in obvious defeat and I am considering a number of tempting options of what to do next with the warm, willing brunette at my mercy.

At least I _was_ considering options. Right up until the moment Eren begins fiddling with the knot of his tie, which is more or less at my eye level.

“Okay Levi, let’s play.” The smooth way Eren wraps his voice around my name makes me want nothing more than to hear him say it again.

“Game on.” I match his determination with a fierce expression and tighten my grip on his shirt. Moments later I am too busy drowning in Eren’s eyes which are now ablaze with pure sin to notice the black tie slipping to the floor, too. My lips curl as Eren begins on his top two buttons. Each pop has the effect of delivering a punishing blow to my resolve.

_Why am I holding this incredible teen at arm’s length? Why am I not tasting the skin he so readily offers?_

My grip on his shirt involuntarily loosens, while the teen’s grip on my affection tightens on witnessing this daring side to him.

 

I last up until the fourth button, by which time my chest is fit to burst. I whip my hands aside in defeat, feeling Eren’s victorious grin press against my neck the moment I release him. The bare skin of his upper torso is hot beneath my fingertips. his pulse races as I glide my lips over his collarbone while his hands tangle in my hair.  It is nowhere near enough. Not for either of us.

When our eyes meet again it is for the briefest of moments. Those slightly wet lips are just too inviting.

Eren bends his head to mine and I am past ready to find out if he tastes as good as he looks. I expect the usual pleasant buzz when our lips collide. What I am wholly unprepared for is the thick flood of ecstasy pooling in my chest when I lick delicately against his lips, requesting access, only to be welcomed inside with a low moan. Eren’s tongue slides almost lazily against my own as I take everything the teen has to offer.

I devour each one of Eren’s ragged breaths like they are precious delicacies. His soft moans feed the bloom of sensation in my chest, until my ribs can hold no more and the ecstasy radiates out to my toes and fingertips like syrup in my veins.

I thread fumbling fingers through Eren’s hair. Keeping him here. Keeping him filling me up. Our chests collide and I tune into the shared thunder of our heart bearts - _Thrum. Thrum. Thrum._

 

_Clop. Clop. Clop._

 

Eren’s wide eyes dart with panic at the same moment I hear footsteps on the stairs. We cut the kiss short. A sloppy string of saliva hangs between us in the second it takes to disentangle.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve, ready as I will ever be to face whoever is coming upstairs. But Eren is far from presentable. He needs more than a few moments to get his shit together. Although I doubt anything can be done about his slightly bruised lips.

“Dress,” I instruct him firmly. He nods, cursing lightly while fumbling furiously with his shirt buttons.

 

 _Clop. Clop._ “Eren! Levi! Are you up here?!” _OK. So it’s Petra. That’s good. The last thing I need right now is Mike sniffing out what just occurred._

“Give me a damn second, Petra.” I grit out, dashing to the top of the stairs to intercept my colleague.

She breathes a sigh of relief when I meet her near the top of the stairs. “Levi, thank god. Have you seen Eren? Because the ETA on Jean’s main course is _two minutes_ and now Erwin’s doing his best caged lion impression.”

“He needed a piss.”

“Well, do you know how long he’ll be?”

“Forgot to ask his bladder,” I drawl sarcastically. Petra chuckles and starts speaking to me about how Hange managed to get a hold of a pair of sabres and tried to have a duel with Christa. Jean was apparently furious.

“Erwin must be pleased,” I say, feigning some interest.

I can’t quite believe Eren and I got away with whatever just happened. Yet when Petra doesn’t question me any further on what might have happened upstairs I start to believe we have.

 

That is until Eren makes his appearance, bounding down the stairs two at a time. I am prepared for him to look a little dishevelled, but Eren’s hair is pointing every direction it shouldn’t and his cheeks are burning a furious red. This alone is forgivable (especially as it’s half my fault.)

What beggars all belief is that the brat has forgotten his damn tie.

“Oh... _ohhh._ ” Petra puts two and two together. But I don’t have time to deal with her wry smile.

The brat's progress down the stairs switches to tentative as he registers my expression. I continue to glare rigidly, pointing at his neck. He looks down with confusion, then horror. His already flushed cheeks to deepen while he mutters something apologetic.  The brainless brat charges back upstairs to retrieve his tie, leaving me alone with _her_.

 “Levi, you do work fast,” Petra coos, rubbing her hands with delight. I answer her with a glare which does nothing to slice through her insufferable smile.


	9. The Second Night: A Rare Offering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean serves the main course. Things do not go as smoothly as the starter.
> 
> Eren and Levi end up with some unexpected time alone. 
> 
> If you have thoughts, I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> Also have a tumblr started. It's theererifairy, If you're interested. XD

**The Second Night: A Rare Offering**

**Jean:** _(dipping a spoon into what is supposed to be redcurrant and port jus, the mixture congeals on the spoon and gives off an acrid aroma)_ Shit – that’s not right!

**Well deduced, Watson.**

**Jean:** _(staring blankly at the sticky mess)_ I don’t understand... what happened?

**_What happened_ , is you cocked up.**

**Jean:** Shit. This is beyond saving. That’s redcurrant jus out the window.

**Yep, not even you can pass off this burnt treacle for redcurrant jus.**

**Jean:** Fucking shit! Argggh! _(he slams the sticky spoon on the worktable and flings the pan into the sink)_

**Get it together, man! Your guests are waiting to be impressed. What about the wellington?**

**Jean:** Right. _(he breathes deeply to compose himself)_ I can still win this.

_(The oven roars fiercely when Jean opens it. The steam clears to reveal a perfectly golden crust. Jean’s expression melts into one of relief. He slices into the wellington to reveal the truffle and mushroom venison filling and very pink meat. The meat is darker the further he cuts in and oozing copious amounts of blood.)_

**Jean:** Beautiful. Just as it should be.

**Seriously!? Are we looking at the same meat? Jean, that’s barely cooked!**

 

* * *

Jean waltzes in with the main course, all covered silver platters and engraved gravy pots. The guests are frozen with awe while his mouth flaps on and on about the deep red Regent Marco is pouring. The wine must be good. Historia’s glass is already half empty and Eren is quickly catching her. “S’good!” Hange exclaims, draining most of her glass in one go and proceeding to squint at the slither of liquid remaining in as if searching for some explanation.

“Of course it’s good. Only the best for my esteemed guests,” Jean claims, rubbing his fingers together in anticipation as he takes his seat next to Eren. “And now for the main event; bon appétit!”

I cringe at Jean’s pronunciation and grip the camera lightly in preparation to capture the reactions to Jean’s main.

The others follow Jean’s lead as he dramatically lift the silver lid from his platter. I zoom in on Historia’s face. I feel nauseous just looking at her and hope with everything I have that she doesn’t spew. Because she sure as hell looks like she might. Her eyes are watering with effort while her cheeks puff out. Hange glances at her sideways, a question on her lips but the blonde shakes her head firmly, determined to suck it up as best she can.

Which is not well enough for Jean not to notice. He observes her thinly veiled disgust with a cool expression which I am certain is fast reaching its expiry date.

Historia brings a fist to her lips, breathing deeply into the back of her hand. Her eyes remain fixed on the plateful of bloody meat. Like there’s a risk that the venison will jump up at her if she doesn’t keep it in sight.

 

Jean gulps down his current mouthful. “Problem?”

“Mmh.” Pathetic. A mouse could mumble louder than the petrified blonde.

Hange pauses in her voracious eating to reach out and gently rub Historia’s shoulder, who finally plucks up the courage to face Jean. He is shooting daggers at her from across the table. “I...uhmm... is any of this redcurrant jus or is it all...?” She trails off, unable to address the source of her horror directly.

 “It’s blood,” Jean confirms. “It’s supposed to be that way. Why, is there a _problem_?”

Historia drops all pretence. Her cutlery drops with a clatter which causes Jean to wince. “I’m so sorry, Jean. I can’t eat this. I can’t even eat medium steak. And this... this is...”

“Delicious,” Hange utters between mouthfuls, lips smacking loudly.

 

“You could have told me,” Jean mutters darkly at Historia, ignoring Hange’s compliment.

“You didn’t ask!” Eren and Historia point out together. I widen the shot to show Jean now glaring at Eren, who is clearly taking the brunette's comment as a betrayal. He notices Eren is skirting around the meat too, quietly favouring the vegetables and outer pastry.

Jean’s nose wrinkles at the sight. Eren bites his lip. Probably in an effort not to say something stupid.

 

“Right. Historia I can understand,” Jean says. He levels his accusing gaze on Eren. “But _you_? don’t tell me you’re a pansy too. Or is this some kind of stunt?”

“Hey! What exactly are you suggesting?” Eren counters.

“I'm suggesting you're playing nice to draw me into a false sense of security... all so you can ruin my night! at the vital moment!”

“You’re doing a good enough job of that yourself, horse-face!”

“Why you little... insulting me in my own home!” Jean bunches the tablecloth in his fists, barely clinging onto his composure.

“You started it! Think you’re so much better than us, don’t you?”

 _Oh shit._ I’ve seen that expression before on Eren’s face. It is no surprise when both chairs scrape and the two men stand, facing each other off.

The room is thick with tension. Even Hange has stopped eating. In the near silence I can hear Eren’s teeth grinding. As well as Jean’s fast snorts of breath. His resemblance to a demented horse has never been stronger.

 Petra’s head pokes from behind her camera and she signals to Erwin with a desperate slicing motion. _Let’s stop filming. Please._

I don’t need to turn behind me to observe Erwin’s response. I know he is rolling his wrist in a firm gesture of refusal.

 _No._ _Continue filming. Shit’s getting interesting._

 

That it certainly is. I continue filming. When all I really want to do is knock their skulls together. Get this childish nonsense out of their system. Oh, and I’d make Jean apologise for showing his prick colours in such spectacular fashion. Eren’s right. Jean did start this. Although I wouldn’t put it past Eren to be the one to end it. With more blood than is currently on horse face’s plates.

I try to convey the only advice I can to the brat. Not that Eren is paying any of us the slightest bit of attention. I funnel my thoughts his way anyway: _Don’t embarrass yourself._

 

Meanwhile, Jean is continuing to lay into Eren. “I thought I was getting somewhere with you.” Jean sounds equal parts exasperated and aggressive while Eren looks about ready to explode. It’s exhausting just watching them.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eren growls.

“Gwuys. GWUYS!”

Both look down to Hange, who is speaking with a new mouthful of food in her trap. “Eefet halps, Jwean... I think wis ith weally gwood.” She holds up both her thumbs and takes a much needed gulp to clear the majority of the food. I try to ignore the glistening pink juices dribbling down her chin. “Although I’m a major carnivore! They don’t like it, Jean. Suck it up and stop whining.”

“Says the nutcase who set their own sleeve alight.”

“— Eren – NO!” Historia begs as Eren squares right up to Jean. So close, their foreheads almost press together. The petite blonde turns to _me_ with a vehemence which completely throws me aback. “ _LEVI!_ ” I reluctantly withdraw from the safety of the viewfinder to face her. Aren’t you going to _do_ something?” she implores. “Stop them coming to blows over nothing?”

I shrug nonchalantly. It’s not my decision. It’s Erwin’s.

If it was my choice, we’d all be taking a much needed time-out by now. But it isn’t my choice, and Historia seems to realise this because she is boring right into Erwin now, who is likely weighing up the risk of a delay to filming should Jean or Eren send the other to hospital. He decides to stick it out, for the sake of some potential 'TV gold'.

Historia folds her arms, grumpily ignoring everyone as the gentlemen continue their scrappy verbal exchange.

 

“You take that back!” Eren demands. “Hange is not a nutcase. She’s awesome, alright? _And_ she’s _defending you_ fuck-face!”

“Eren! I’m touched, but really I don’t mind—” Hange insists. But he and Jean are too wrapped up in their petty confrontation to pay her any more notice.

“Fuck-face the best you got? And I don’t need defending by an eccentric,” Jean continues. “Maybe I just need guests who know taste when they see—”

“TASTE THIS!”

The inevitable blow takes place as if in slow motion. All of it is on film of course.

Jean’s brown eyes widening with shock. Eren’s features crunching into something feral. His fist colliding with Jean’s jaw. Jean jabbing an elbow in retaliation, catching Eren in the throat. A booming voice: “ENOUGH!” as two large hands separate the two seething men. I take this as permission to abandon the camera and move silently to assist Erwin in keeping them apart. The somehow still calm producer keeps a hold of Jean, restraining him effortlessly with an arm around his chest. I spin Eren by the shoulders, who jumps at the sudden touch and huffing angrily on realising I’m the one frogmarching him across the room.

Was he expecting a pat on the back?

“ALRIGHT,” Erwin declares in a voice commanding enough to snap any remaining tension. The contestants look to Erwin like puppets awaiting the next move. “That’s enough drama for one evening. We’re all taking a break. Petra, Mike, speak to the girls in the front room. Levi, take Eren to cool off upstairs. Jean, you’re staying with me.”

 

No one looks happy with the situation. Least of all Eren, who is unsubtly trying to wriggle free from my grip. Except we’re not playing now. He looks at me askew, perhaps surprised at the pressure I am applying through his shirt. My grip is carefully calculated. Just enough to keep him secure without risking hurting him. I don’t bother with subtlety when we reach the stairs, hooking an arm around an elbow and not caring how it looks as I pull him up. I release him on the top step, trusting him to fall in line.

He stares heatedly at me like this is somehow my fault.

 

 I shove open the nearest door and Eren follows me in, kicking the door shut behind him. I don’t bother to reprimand him over respect to other people’s property. His quick pacing now is a clear indication that he is still wound up. We happen to be in the game room. The confusion of flashing lights and clashing music make it an odd choice of environment to cool off in anyway.

“God!” Eren exclaims, without breaking in his stride.

“Just me, actually.” My attempt at humour does nothing to permeate his black mood.

“How is it fair that a dick wad like Jean gets to live in a place like this? How is it fair that he gets to have all this cool stuff?” His hands fly expressively while he walks. The brat’s making me dizzy. I need to stop him somehow, but I’m reluctant to physically do so.

“Life’s fair? Missed that memo.” I retort. Apparently, humour is entirely the wrong way to go, because the little shit has the stop for a moment audacity and _glare_ at me before continuing in his furious pacing.

“You wouldn’t understand. It’s not like you ever have to worry about money!”

 _Never have to worry about money, hmm?_ He thinks I’m more in league with Jean than himself when it comes to financial security. The brat would be in for a serious shock if he saw the size of my place. Or lack thereof. Working for TV doesn’t pay nearly as much as people assume. Then there are all the expenses of travelling, eating out, paying annual rent on a flat I don’t see for half the year... It’s pretty shitty actually. All the more so when everyone you know is convinced of your enviable lifestyle.

 

“Eren,” I say when he next comes around. “Stop.”

He grinds to a halt, feet fidgeting impatiently. Threatening to take off any second. “What?”

“You can make me the enemy. Or you can take some much needed advice.”

He pauses in his primal pacing. “Yeah, what’s that, smartass?”

“Watch your tone, brat.”

“That’s your _amazing_ advice? Have you heard yourself lately?”

 

“Eren, stop.” My fingers move automatically to my forehead, trying to massage the tension building there. “I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself. When you go back downstairs, _try_ and remember you’re being filmed. You'll be lucky if Jean doesn't want to press charges.”

 “Jeez! Like I don’t know that already! Thought you were going to say something useful... or...”

“Or what?”

 “Nothing. I don’t expect an old man like you to understand...” _Fuck. Is this the same brat who had his eager tongue down my throat less than an hour ago?_

“Try me,” I say, meeting his eyes with a serious expression. Eren answers me with his jaw set in defiance, challenging me to answer my own questions. But honestly, I have no idea what I did to deserve his petty attempt at a glare. And I have no idea why he is still so angry. At me.

The brat huffs in my direction, turning on his heel to continue his pacing in peace. Like I’m letting that happen. I move quickly, planting myself in front of him so the teen has two choices. Stop or crash straight into me. He falls somewhere halfway, chest bouncing against my shoulder before stepping back a pace.

“Right. I’ve had just about enough of this. What is it you want from me?”

 “Let’s see. You could make me feel like I’m not a _criminal_. Or a dog that did a shit in the hallway. You could have stuck up for me back there and not dragged me away in front of everyone!”

“Would you rather Erwin was the one to pull you away?”

He looks uncertain. “No... But shouldn’t you be trying to make me feel better now? Can’t you just tell me that I did the right thing...”

 

“You didn’t.” How is the brat not getting this? No matter what Jean said, Eren is irrefutably in the wrong for resorting to violence. Is this what he meant when he mentioned he had anger issues? I almost didn’t believe him at the time.

“But you saw him, what he said—”

“I saw you let your emotions rule you.”

“Jeez! You say that like it’s the worst fucking thing in the world.”

“It is.”

“You’re a hypocrite, then. Because I swear you gave in to your emotions earlier! I was fucking _there_!”

“You’re right. I am a hypocrite.” I reach out for his wrist, suddenly needing some form of contact.

“What? _...Oh_.” The fire in Eren’s argument gutters out entirely as he watches me rub smooth circles into his palm.

“But I shouldn’t,” I admit.

“You shouldn’t what?” Eren wears a half glazed expression, finally calm.

“Give in to... this. To you.” The multicoloured lights around us blur into one as Eren pulls me to him. It's good not to have to speak any more. I can't anyway. Pressed against Eren's chest like this. I scent the rose pinned to his lapel. The floral note somehow suits him.

“I can’t stay angry at you,” he whispers into my ear, biting the lobe and fuelling me with warm puffs of breath.

“Why?” I mutter, utterly helpless as Eren trails the barest whisper of kisses down my neck. I’m not sure if I sigh, or have just been holding my breath too long that everything I have comes out at once.

 Eren’s mouth leaves the crook of my neck and he hovers before me, our noses almost touching. “Because I don’t think you ever give in to what you really want. Not for long, anyway.”

It is then, as I emerge like a nearly drowned man from Eren’s shining eyes that I realise. That is not sympathy. It isn’t just fondness either, or youthful curiosity. What I am seeing swimming in Eren’s eyes is something rare and precious. I don’t have much experience in seeing, let alone identifying:

Adoration. Pure and simple. And terrifying, when paired with Eren’s determined nature. I know that need to do something about this. But not now... Not when Eren fits so well within my arms. Not when he mumbles contentedly against my skin. That he is _so glad_ he applied for this show, because then he got to _meet me_ and there is so much to _look forward to_.

 

_In the future._

I cannot remember the last time I was so terrified.

 

Shit. I need to talk to him urgently. Put him right. A better man would get this over with now. I tell myself that I need to work out what to say, so as not to hurt him. Because the reality is that I’m leaving at the end of this week. Either Eren is pretending otherwise, or he has some far-fetched plan as to what will happen after that time.

I am under no illusions. He will have forgotten all about me by the time the episode airs.

And really, that’s for the best. How many years is it since my last relationship? The fact I can’t be 100% sure paints enough of a picture. Even if Eren does have to ‘get over me’, I am secure in the knowledge that there are countless others ready to comfort the teen. Who wouldn’t want to be the one to paint a smile on his lips? Who wouldn’t want to be the one to light up his eyes?

 

I am barely aware of Eren speaking when he does, catching only the end of his question.

“...have much longer, do you think?” _Only two more nights_. But that isn’t what Eren is asking.

I realise I have no idea how much time has passed. We may have minutes. We may have moments. We could be the objects of a frantic search party at this very second.

I tell him as much, noting the conflict in his expression as he chews his lip.

I tear myself away from his warmth before he can say something stupid. Something which could strike a blow at my resolve. Without Eren in my arms, I feel inexplicably vulnerable at the thought of leaving this room. I pull myself together, clicking pieces back into place which haven’t shifted for years.

“Come. The show must go on,” I sigh, to which Eren rewards me with the most dazzling smile. Turns out he doesn’t need to say a word to strike blows at my resolve. The sooner we get downstairs the better. And the sooner I get a chance to think about what I want to say to him, the less chance Eren has to get under my skin. And all those other places _where he simply cannot stay._

 


	10. The Second Night: Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean tries to get his night back on track. Historia and Hange gang up on Eren, who finds another wine he likes.

**The Second Night: Endurance**

Relief floods over Eren’s features as Erwin explains that Jean is kindly not pressing charges and that the footage of the confrontation will be altered. The teen is the perfect picture of innocence as he apologises with gusto to Erwin, and then more stiffly to Jean, whose jaw is only slightly pink under a layer of Petra’s concealer. There is some slight swelling as well but it is not a problem. I can adjust the angle of my shots so as not to make it too obvious.

 “Now you two shake hands and it will be like it never happened,” Erwin promises them, looking rather pleased with himself as the two edge closer to make their peace. Erwin is probably too busy thinking about all the juicy footage he has to work with to notice the farce of a truce that is in Jean and Eren’s handshake. Both grip the other’s hand stiffly and neither shares eye contact. My fists unconsciously clench when I notice Jean squeezing Eren’s fingers a bit too tightly. The brunette attempts to disguise his wince under a friendly smile. But he doesn’t fool me. I uncurl my fists, shooting daggers at the smug, lanky blonde who wouldn’t recognise an apology if it slapped him in the face.

The shaky gesture of peace is good enough for Erwin. He claps his hands together and everyone moves to their places like actors on set. I take position at the foot of the table as the guests settle at the table and Jean heads out to fetch the night’s entertainment. As if we haven’t been entertained enough already.

 

In a pointless attempt to reinstate a ‘sophisticated’ vibe, horse face’s entertainment is a petite, brunette violinist. She plays beautifully and with such a furious energy that the musician’s braid flies wildly. Her bow moves in what seems an erratic dance, yet has the guests and crew alike enraptured. When she reaches the crescendo, her bow slices with a fury which is impressive and alarming all at once. Her audience are hanging onto every note, yet it is like the violinist is unaware. Too wrapped up in the music to care. It is only when she swipes the bow decisively in one final note that she smiles shyly in the direction of the table. Everyone at the table is clapping except for Hange, who is whooping like she’s at a sporting event.

 

Perhaps horse face has a chance of getting his night back on track after all. The host is practically glowing at the reaction to his entertainment. He struts into the kitchen to prepare dessert with a swing in his step like he’s in a Disney film. That thought has me imagining the table breaking out into song.

I wonder if Eren has a decent singing voice...

Wait. What the fuck’s wrong with me?

What the hell does it matter if Eren has the most angelic voice? There’s no reason why I should be thinking about Eren any more than necessary. Having seen the adoration in his eyes, and realised he wants more than a short term experience, it’s kinder that I don't give him any more false hope.

I refuse to look at him directly, pointing the camera in his direction when necessary but without my usual focus. I’m aware that this will result in some shoddy shots. The sacrifice is entirely necessary.

Although... I am beginning to suspect that Eren is noticing – somehow. The _chink_ of his glass rings out more regularly as the minutes pass. Is this his third glass now? The fourth? It is impossible to tell because I really have not been looking at him. I try and recall how many times Marco has glided over to the brunette’s side of the table. Shit. This might be his sixth glass. And he was a little hazy earlier after one.

I try not to think about all the ways Eren could embarrass himself on national TV and zone into the conversation. I focus on Hange, who is blatantly ignoring Erwin’s instruction to forget about ‘the incident’ and is enthusiastically grilling Eren on whether he has ever ‘successfully knocked someone out’ and if he meant to hit Jean or if he was ‘fully blinded with rage.’ None of this can be used in the final edit, what with Erwin choosing to blot out the physical contact. If the producer was in the room now he’d be making some brash suggestion in order to change the conversation to something juicy, but he’s out on another fag break. And I don’t have the motivation to force a swerve of topic.

Eren surprises me by going into copious detail in his answers to Hange’s questions about his outburst. In fact, it seems to be helping him, talking about why he gets angry. Admitting that it is often in defence of his friends, so when Jean verbally attacked Hange when she was on _his_ side, it was the final straw. Being the sort of person that would lay down my life for those I care about, I get where Eren is coming from. What I don’t understand is why Eren feels the need to protect the honour of some mad woman he’s barely met. But then, I suppose that’s just his habit of being a people person.

 

Hange beams at the brunette. “Eren, I feel so _so_ honoured! If I deduce correctly, that means we’re friends.”

“Sure. And Historia too, if you want..?” He smiles at her in that genuine way he has. Damn. I shouldn’t be noticing that. I swing the camera a somewhat forcefully back to Historia’s direction. But the woman is on the move. Heading where else but to Eren’s side of the table.

I can see exactly what’s going to happen before Eren realises. He turns around to Historia who is standing behind his chair with a puzzled expression. His cheeks are red, and I wonder again exactly how much alcohol he has consumes in the last half hour.

“Oh Eren, I’d be honoured to be your friend!” I try not to look as Historia wraps her slender arms around Eren’s muscled shoulders. However, I cannot block out his surprised chuckle, or Hange’s delighted cooing.

 

A flood of feeling has me breathing faster, every sense tuned in to the sight before me. It’s torture. Made worse by the fact that I should not be feeling this I definitely should not be feeling this...whatever this pitiful feeling is. _Jealousy?_

Am I jealous, because Eren is standing now to embrace Historia’s properly, and her head is cheek is resting against Eren’s chest exactly where mine was earlier?

Am I jealous, because if Historia and Eren do decide to stay in touch, they can meet together with ease. They live only 10 minutes apart where it would take hours of driving for me to visit Trost.

 

When Historia finally releases him, I release a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

“Hey! He’s my friend too!” Hange jumps out of her seat, skirting the table and outstretching both hands to Eren. She catches him under the ribs and the teen makes a sudden high pitched sound, clapping his hands to his mouth in embarrassment as the other two share a devious look, attacking his sides in unison.

“HA!—ngeee! – Hist – _AH!_ No! That... _HA!..._ _tickles!_ ”

“We found your one weakness!” Hange bellows. They redouble their efforts until the brat is struggling to breath and bent over double, hands raised in surrender. His hair flops forward, obscuring his eyes from me. Through I notice a single tear tracking down his cheek.

Eren’s laughter is eating through my patience like a caterpillar chewing the leaves of its favourite plant. My leg fidgets as Hange and Historia share a look of prideful mirth at how they have wrecked the poor brat. But apparently he has not suffered enough.

This time Eren sees it coming, but there is little he can do as the women attack him again on both sides.

“I... _HAH!_ Take it... _HAH._.. back!” The women retreat a little to avoid Eren’s flailing arms. “Real friends wouldn’t... take of advantage... of MEE!. Like... this!” I can’t help smirking at the words, even if all I really want is to leap up to press against Eren’s chest and feel the last ripples of laughter pouring from him.

No. That’s wrong. I shouldn’t want that. I don’t want that. If you say something enough times, it becomes true. If I tell myself that, then perhaps I will believe it.

 

All three are flushed and breathless by the time the women return to their side of the table. The topic immediately returns to the promise to stay in touch. It’s a credit to Eren’s personality that this conversation is happening on the second night of the competition. Usually the empty promises to keep in contact after filming are made on the final night, if at all. Heck, at the rate Eren is going, by the time the final night rolls around he’ll be on horse face’s Christmas card list.

There I go again. Reminding myself that there is a _final_ night. Facing simply facts should not feel like I am dropping stones into my stomach.

Hell. How am I going to talk to Eren about this later? Will we even get a chance tonight or will I have to wait until tomorrow?

 

“Levi.”

I try not to sound too shocked at Eren suddenly addressing. I pause filming, peeling my face from the camera to look in his direction rather than directly at him.

“What?” I notice out of the corner of my eye that he is leaning harshly to the left, forcing himself into my view despite my wishes. Shitty brat.

“Seeing as you guys don’t let us have phones during filming, can you lend us a pen and some paper?”

“Alright.” It just so happens I have a spare notepad in my pack, along with at least 5 pens. You can never be too prepared.

I carefully fold a sheet of paper and crease it with my thumbnail so the paper snaps cleanly away from the pad, placing it on the table where Eren can reach out and grab it. The moment Eren picks up the page he roughly tears it into four so that the three of them can share contact details.

Wait. _Why four pieces?_

I have my answer when Eren begins a sentence to Historia and ends it by looking straight at me. Through me. Like he aware of the fortified walls that surround me and is determined to break them down.

 “We’ll stay in touch, guys. That’s a promise.” Then he fucking winks at me, like we're flirting in a bar. Or... I don't know, not on a fucking TV show.

 

I pretend not to notice the fourth slip of paper which he flicks my way.

Of course, that’s no good. Eren simply gets up and hands me the paper, along with the pen which I have clean forgotten he has borrowed.

He stands there wordlessly with the pen outstretched – not close enough to take it from him - and I wonder what the hell he’s playing at. After a few seconds pass, I glance up to find him chewing his bottom lip, then find my gaze settling on his eyes, which crinkle as he breaks into a smile. “Thanks,” he says, leaning down to pass me the pen and paper. His fingers brush against my knuckles. He rubs a soft circle into the back of my hand. Such a small amount of contact should not take my breath away. I should not be holding the piece of paper with his contact details or tucking it into my breast pocket like I am planning on using the information. And I definitely should not be offering Eren a small smile, which he drinks up like a person parched.

Oh great. Historia and Hange are whispering fervently on their side of the table. I retreat back behind the camera, wondering why everything has to be so damn complicated.

 

I couldn’t tell you much about Jean’s dessert. Attempting a soufflé is always a risky affair. Fortunately for Jean and in keeping with the determination to turn his night around, Jean’s gold dust covered concoction comes out fully risen. Although the air in the host’s head is more than his desserts combined. He serves the dishes with a flourish. Back to his usual overconfident self. What I _can_ tell you is that Eren likes the dessert wine even more than the _rosé_. For the teen who doesn't often drink he must have a dangerous amount of alcohol in his system. I find myself imagining all the stupid things he could say or do.

 I am paying less attention than usual to the precision of each shot. The little piece of paper containing Eren’s contact details burns against my chest. More than anything I feel tired, wanting this night to end, aching to collapse on the bed of our shitty hotel and fall into a dreamless sleep.

 

The dinner party is finally over but there is still more to do. I pack up quickly. Not quickly enough it turns out. By the time I reach the drive, Petra and Mike have already claimed Historia and Hange as their taxi passengers. Erwin always conducts the final interview with the host so that leaves me driving Eren home in the third taxi. Fucking fantastic.

 

* * *

 

**It’s time to see whether all that gold dust was worth it. Historia, were you bedazzled by Jean’s night or will you be having nightmares about that bloody main course for weeks to come?**

**Historia:** Overall Jean did what he set out to do. The starter might be the poshest thing I have ever eaten and he did an amazing job with the soufflé. But –

**Here we go.**

**Historia:** I was made to feel uncomfortable for having different tastes. A guest choosing not to eat a particular food is not them trying to offend the cook, but I felt that way. So, I’m scoring Jean a 6. It would have been a 9 if the main course had worked out.

**Ouch. Jean’s break from good hosting etiquette has cost him dear. Does Hange share Historia’s qualms?**

**Hange:** First off. I freaking love that country house. Mansion. Whatever Jean lives in. I ate everything he put in front of me, so top marks there and his entertainment was beautiful. Yeah, there was a dodgy 5 minutes during the main, but we all got over it. Because Jean’s night was 90% amazing, I’m scoring him a 9.

**Jean _will_ be pleased. Now, finally... Eren? Oh, Ereeeeeen?**

 

_(A flush-faced Eren is clearly asleep with his cheek against the window.)_

 

I don’t look at Eren in the rear view mirror, but I can still hear him: the fabric of his trousers slipping on the leather seat, a heavy _thunk_ which I think could be his head against the window. Shit. He can’t sleep now. I need his score for Jean. Not to mention that I am _not_ carrying him through the communal door and up the flights of stairs to his apartment.

“Eren! We’re not done yet.” The brunette mumbles something incoherently. I glance in the rear view mirror and am greeting with droopy green eyes and a gaping yawn.

“Whassit, Levi? Mm’home?”

“Almost. You need to give horse-face a score.”

“Mmhm.”

“Look into the camera on the headrest.”

“Kay.” Eren gives one final yawn and sits up into a more natural position. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me how the night went and stuff?”

“How was it?” I was hoping Eren would just get on with it and I wouldn’t have to engage in conversation.

“There were highs and lows.” Eren speaks into the camera. “The best part of the evening was spending time in Jean’s game room.” I tense up at the reference to the time we spent there, trying to focus solely on driving and not the lopsided smirk spreading across Eren’s face. “But yeah, his crappy attitude kind of ruined it for me. So I’m scoring Jean a 6. And Levi gets a 9 but only because we didn’t get to finish what we were –

“EREN!” I make the somewhat dangerous decision of turning around to glare at him. “You do fucking realise this is all on film.”He raises both palms in a gesture of innocence, conflicting dramatically with his playful expression.

“Just thought you’d appreciate my opinion.”

“Shut up and let me drive you home in one piece.”

“Why, you planning to take me apart when we get there?” God. That was terrible. I sigh deeply, figuring that if I don’t humour him he will run out of stupid things to say.

It doesn’t happen. I realise exactly how shit faced Eren is as he starts talking about whether alien life exists. I keep one eye on him and another on the road, thankful that the sat nav shows we are almost at his apartment. Eren’s upper body is unconsciously swaying like a tree caught in wind. He’s at serious risk of accidently thumping his head against the window.

 

When I pull up outside the complex, Eren looks close to sleep again. I open the passenger door and prod his calf with my boot.

“Get out.”

“One condition.”

“How about you get out or I turf you out onto the pavement?”

“Alright. I’m doing it!”

It soon becomes apparent that Eren isn't capable of 'doing it'. He looks at his legs with a bemused expression as if trying to figure out how his feet became tangled together. When Eren does manage to stand, he sways perilously, quickly reaching out to the taxi for support. His palms thump heavily against the paintwork.

I am aware that he has as much chance of reaching the 5th floor alone as he has of breaking his neck on the steps. So I decide to see him to his door. Nothing more. Erwin would kill me if I let a contestant get seriously injured anyway. I am duty bound to ensure his safety. So, instead of telling Eren to keep his distance from me like I should be, I am pulling him away from the taxi by the back of his shirt.

 

"Yeah! Let's go _that way_." He points happily in the direction of the communal door, which he attempts to powerwalk towards.

“Easy,” I advise, walking behind him and placing my hands near his elbows just in case. He doesn't slow down and without my support he would be veering way off target. "Seriously, pace yourself."

“Yes, Leeevi. The night is still young.” He winks, then spins a full circle with his arms outstretched. He faces me with an expression which he probably thinks is flirtatious. In reality, he simply looks plastered. Rocking back and forth on his heels. Breathing wine fumes straight into my face.

“Shut up and walk.” I grab his arms this time in order to drive him forwards.

“Yes, Sir,” he utters between giggles, before coming to a sudden stop. I almost bump into his back.

“Leeevi, I feel funny,” he admits, blinking at me with big eyes. “Help me?”

Like I have a fucking choice. I loop am arm securely around his middle, allowing his head to rest back against my shoulder.

 

“This is nice,” he sighs as I set as fast a pace as Eren can manage. I set my eyes on the door, and when we are through on the end of the stairway, and the next, and the next. Eren is getting heavier in my arms. Yes, both arms. I am now supporting him in a cross hold over his chest.

I quickly yank my arms together when the inevitable happens and Eren loses his ailing battle against gravity and falls facing me. His whole weight slumps against me, cheek resting on my shoulder, wet lips lightly grazing my jaw. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me, brat.” I jostle his dead weight and elicit a disgruntled moan.

It’s a relief to see the door to Eren’s apartment. The brunette fishes out some keys. He’s still speaking to me as I try to find the right one, but I am not listening so it is a shock when Eren comes up to hug me tightly from behind.

“I _said_ where’s my goodnight kiss?” Eren repeats. His breath is warm against my ear and it is a struggle not to shudder at the sensation.

“You’re a bit old for that,” I jest while I feel his lips press into a pout against my neck. “I’m not reading you a bedtime story either, before you ask.”

He draws away and I instantly miss the warmth of his body.

“You’re so mean to me.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“No m’not. Feel great, actually. Really, really amazing.”

“Because you’re shit faced.”

“Because _you_ , Leeevi. Now kiss me goodnight already.”

“Shut up. I'm trying to get you inside.”

"Inside _where_?" He loses all composure, bent over with laughter while I try a few more keys.

"Shut up," I say preemtively as Eren takes a huge breath in preparation to say something else stupid.

“If you kiss me,” he retorts. I try the fifth of Eren’s keys on the door. It opens with a satisfying click. This night is finally over.

 “You’re so mean to me,” Eren mutters “Why won’t you kiss me again? Was it bad?” Despondency washes over the brunette's red face.

_Hell no am I falling for this again. He can't really be upset. He must know he's a fucking amazing kisser._

I forcibly spin Eren towards the door, trusting he can manage the walk to his bed.

 

“Walk,” I implore, to which he grumbles, trying his level best to face me again.

“Tch. I should have left you outside on the floor,” I say, releasing his upper arms and pushing him through the door, throwing his keys inside and shutting the door.

"Goodnight, Brat."


	11. The Third Night: Walk in the Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh... sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. Don't hate me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's stuff on my Tumblr now. Come say hi if you like.
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theererifairy

**The Third Night: Walk in The Park**

Over breakfast the next morning, Erwin reminds me about the daytime interviews. My cup pauses halfway to my lips as I narrow my brows. Honestly, I thought Erwin was joking when he said I’d be conducting Petra’s damn interviews for the rest of the week. By all rights it should be her driving all over the city today. She’s much more suited to that kind of thing and I swear she gets a kick out of getting to know the contestants on a ‘personal level.

For all of Erwin’s pomp he usually does try and keep his production team – if not happy – then at least not fucking miserable. Today is a rare exception it would seem. Mike is the only one remotely content, watching the show play out before him while shovelling chucks of croissant into his mouth.

 

Petra huffs with such intensity that her fringe blows away from her face. She is complaining to Erwin about having nothing useful to do for the day. When he makes the suggestion of sampling Trosts’ renowned shopping destinations, Petra scrunches her nose with obvious distaste. Meanwhile, I glare at Erwin with a venom usually reserved for gunk on the bottom of my shoe.

Not that this sod of a producer appears to give a flying fuck about either of out our opinions. He guns down both our arguments with a single bullet: _It’s our job._ Right. As if I could forget why I put up with this kind of bullshit.

“Right, my happy team. Another busy day ahead!” Erwin launches from his seat with far more energy than anyone has the right to this early in the morning and gathers up our finished breakfast plates. He deftly arranges them along one arm and thumps me high on the back with his spare hand. I don’t think he means to do so quite as forcefully. If my reflexes were any less sharp, my tea might have gone flying into Mike’s lap.

Erwin dumps our breakfast plates on a nearby trolley and rests an arm on the back of my chair. I stare into the depths of my cup of earl grey while Erwin bends down beside me until his face is beside mine and I can smell his citrusy cologne. This position has to be awkward for him. What’s his game?

 

“Chin up, Levi. It’s unlike you to sulk.”

“Not sulking.” My lips curl into a sneer as I take a long sip.

 “Think of this as an opportunity to work on your people skills.”

“Tch.” There’s little need to work on something I don’t give two shits about. Yet I can’t exactly refuse to do these interviews. As Mikasa mentions every time we speak on the phone, this is my very last chance getting guaranteed camera work at the studio. I can’t afford to fuck this up over nothing.

 

 “Oh, and you’ll need to head off-” Erwin checks his watch “-about 5 minutes ago, actually.” His tone offers no elbow room for argument.

 “Where am I going?”

“Let’s see.” Erwin brandishes a list from his trouser pocket. “You’ll meet Jean at 9:00am outside the war museum and Historia will be at her allotment for 10:00am.  Then you have Eren who’s dog walking in the Memorial park –”

“—Eren doesn’t have a dog,” I observe without thinking. Erwin quirks a brow at my interruption, while Petra wears a triumphant expression as she nudges Mike in the ribs.

“See, I told you that Eren’s all Levi talks about now. He’s obsessed. I don’t know if it’s cute... or a bit creepy.” She winks at me while I assume an expression of utter disinterest.

“I am _not_ obsessed with that shitty brat.”

“You’re doing it right now,” Petra insists.

“She’s got a point,” Mike shrugs. “You did have more than a whiff of _eau de Eren_ about you after driving him home last night.” _Great. Three against one._

 

I take an exasperated breath before trying to explain the facts to my thick as shit colleagues. Lest they get the wrong idea. “That’s because the brat doesn’t know his alcohol tolerance. I had to help him up the fucking stairs—”

“ _You fucked on the stairs?”_ Petra’s lips purse in a sour-lemon ‘o’.

“Get your ears tested! I had to _walk him_ up the stairs. So he didn’t fall and pass out with a head injury.”

“You didn’t have to,” Erwin points out. The others agree with him like a pair of nodding dogs. “But you chose to.”

“Don’t _you_ start, old man.” I drop my cup a little too loudly to the table and level my glare on Erwin. His amused expression only serves to make me more irate. “Would you rather I stood by and let the brat break his neck? What would happen to your precious production then?”

“True,” he sighs, as deep in thought. “Just imagine the paperwork.” Erwin places a large hand on my shoulder. “Get going, Levi. I trust that Eren will not get mauled or mugged under your protection but try your best not to ravage the boy either.”

I have nothing to say to that bullshit comment. In fact, I couldn’t get out of here sooner. I snatch the list of addresses from the table.

“Levi, don’t look so sour,” Petra chimes, one hand pressed firmly on the sheet I need. “I hear the Memorial park is beautiful this time of year.”

 “Petra. Go buy some bloody shoes.”

 

* * *

 

It turns out that Eren is walking a friend’s dog in the Memorial Park; a sandy coated cocker spaniel who Eren says never gets tired. That I can believe. The mutt ran circles around us all through the interview, choosing to leap over every bench and flowerbed rather than go around.

Now, I don’t hate dogs. But I have little time for them. The canine race is made up of attention seeking  fluff balls who do a half assed job of cleaning themselves, whereas a cat doesn’t demand attention often. Plus they bury their shit. Most cats wouldn’t know what to do with the kind of coddling that Eren is affording Francis right now. The brunette curls his arms around the dog’s middle to tickle his belly while the dog’s backside goes into overdrive, wriggling in an energetic dance.

When Eren stops his administrations, the dog rolls onto his feet to stop the teen from walking away.

“No, Francis,” Eren says with absolutely zero authority. The dog gets the message anyway, bounding over to me instead.

 

“Hello dog.” I don’t bend down to fuss him, but that doesn’t dull the dog's enthusiasm as he investigates my boots.

“Aw, Levi. Francis likes you!”

He circles around me, tail whipping about with excitement. That alone I can deal with. But then the mutt tries to sneak a wet tongue over my fingers. Not a chance. I snap my hand up, ignoring Francis’s low whine. Failing that, he makes do with licking long stripes up the leather of my boots like they’ve been rubbed with bacon.

No way am I letting this damn mutt ruin my best boots. I hop onto the low stone wall dividing the grass and a flowerbed.  

 

“Oh, do you not like dogs?”

“More a cat person,” I reply.

Francis puffs his cheeks at me in frustration and makes a dash back to Eren who is crouched down and ready to welcome him with open arms.

“S’not your fault,” he coos. “I still love you.” The dog is seemingly torn between twisting his head for rubs behind the ears and licking Eren’s fingers raw. Hearing the slick smacking sound of its tongue is more than a little disgusting.

 

“So, Levi.”

“Mm?”

“Can you speak cat?”

“What?”

“Can you speak cat? Like purring and meowing.” he tilts his head back and rolls some _r_ ’s in a pretty accurate rendition of a cat’s contented purr.” Heck. Even Francis cocks an ear, head darting around to find the cat.

“Not a chance.”

“Please, Levi.”

“I said no.”

“Okay. I get it.” Something in his twinkling eyes tells me he doesn’t get it at all. “Purring and meowing. That’s not you at all now I think about it...” I don’t like where this is going at all. “So, I’ll take a growl instead!” A selfish part of me wants to indulge him. The reasonable side knows that this is no time to get sidetracked – although I already kind of am.

 

Now that the interview is out of the way, I need to get down to the distasteful business of informing Eren that our... relationship must take a step neatly behind the line of professionalism.

“What part of ‘no’ are you missing?” I hop down from the wall and shoot Eren a narrow look.

“Sourpuss.” He runs a finger down my shirt until he meets my belt. I swipe a hand at his wrist, refusing to look at him. Sensing him tense up anyway. Hearing a surprised intake of breath.

“Don’t...” My eyes pinch shut while I take a large gasp which does nothing to fill my lungs, “do that.” When I open my eyes once more, Eren is practically in my face.

“Okay, my little kitten. What’s wrong?”

“Fucking hell, Eren.”

“Language, Levi.” Eren leans into a whisper against my ear. “ _There’s kids about.”_ This is no good. Eren’s so close I can feel the heat radiating off him.

I think to retort that there’s a kid in my face right now, but that’s not a good idea. This flirtatious demeanour is more like a facade. Eren knows something is up. His movements are stiff and his smile looks so forced that it doesn't suit him.This conversation needs to happen _now_ and I don’t want to start off by insulting him. Telling Eren we need to keep things professional from now on is supposed to be about doing the right thing. Causing the least hurt to him.

 

“Back. Off.” At the very least Eren needs to take a couple of paces back. When he simply plants his feet and bores into me, I take the initiative and shift away from him. My back presses against something hard. Great. Some big ass tree. Just what I need. Eren advances and I am forced to sidle ungracefully against the bark out of his reach.

“I mean it,” I say, forcing myself to meet his bright, questioning eyes. The serious note stills him in his tracks. “We need to talk about what has been happening this week.”

“We can talk later. In case you haven’t noticed we’re all _alone_ apart from Francis. And he won’t tell anyone about all the things you want to do to me.” Everything Eren does is unsubtle. This cheesy wink is no exception.

My lips might quirk into a smile at Eren’s pathetic attempt at seduction. I catch myself and force my expression into something more suitable. Can’t afford to offer Eren a single drop of encouragement. I need to anchor myself to the purpose of this conversation, not get swept away by the whims of this fucking teenager.

I am still mentally berating myself for smiling when Eren makes a sudden move to embrace me. I catch his wrists on the way to my waist. At first he thinks my resistance is a game, struggling half-heartedly to reach his intended destination. It is only when I roughly twist his hands downwards in a move which likely burns his wrists that Eren drops his arms, leaning an elbow against the tree and peering at me with a puzzled expression.

“Eren. This is what we need to talk about.”

 

“Is it because I was drunk last night? 'Cause I’m really sorry about that.” He rubs a hand at the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. “I hope I didn’t do anything... weird for you.”

“Hardly. I carry drunken brats to bed all the time.”

“Oh god...” he holds his face in his hands, shoulders slooped. “I’m so sorry. So... this is why you hate me now.”

“I don't hate you. Just forget it.

 

Eren is doing anything but. His breathing turns fast, brows furrowed in tight concentration as he struggles in earnest to remember the details of last night.

 “Shit, Levi. I've ruined everything. Overstepped some boundary or something. Please, _please_ believe me when I say that’s the last thing I wanted to do.” His fists curl and unfurl with nervous tension. His shoulders bunch and his whole body is stiff. The brat’s riddled with concern. For me.

Fuck if that isn’t freakishly adorable and terrifying all at once.

“Levi. Tell me! What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything, Eren. Calm down.”

"Then why are you being like this?"

I sigh. Even to my ears I sound tired. The exact opposite of Eren who is grinding both hands through his hair. "Because I have been setting a poor example of professionalism."

He takes the much needed luxury of a deep breath and looks a little more put together for it. “Cut the crap, Levi. Why are you pushing me away?"

I level my gaze on his darting eyes, determined for this to sink in. “There are a hundred reasons. You're a contestant. I leave at the end of the week...”

“Sure. But I also _really_ like you. And I know you like me. I get that it's weird because you're working. I really do. So... what happens after? What are you okay with?”

“—After?” I blurt unthinkingly, like Eren's speaking another language.

“After filming.”

 

_Of course. Here it goes. This may end up hurting me more than Eren. It's a risk I'm willing to take so as not to hurt him more by letting this impossible fantasy continue.  
_

“Eren. Listen to me very carefully. There is no ‘after’.”

 

His reaction is so out of place that I simply stand there gaping at him while his whole body quakes with almost silent laughter. His frame is still rippling with aftershocks when he speaks.  

 “This is - hah- still all really weird for you. HAH! I get it.” _Okay. He’s taking this better than I thought, even if he does resemble an escapee from the asylum._ “But,” _oh no_. There is nothing innocent in the smirk now spreading across his face. “I love a challenge. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

 

I am somewhere between exasperation and rage. What game does this brat think he is playing? I have a fucking say in this. And I say that this dalliance is over.

I check my watch. There is 20 minutes until I need to get to Hange. Plenty of time to get this done.

“Eren. This is not some shitty game. My decision is final. After Friday you will not hear from me again.”

 

Levi?” his tone is heavy with dejection as it dawns that I am fully serious. To think those two syllables once dripped from his tongue like honey. “I thought...”

“You thought what?” I snap, angry with myself for wanting to do whatever it takes to make him smile again. Because I can’t back down from this now. Eren deserves better than the sort of half assed long-distance relationship I could possibly give him.

 “That we could at least try... and see what happens.” His eyes flick down, hands curl into fists in his jacket pockets.

Fuck having 20 minutes. I resolve to make this quick; like ripping off a plaster.

“No, Eren. We can’t. We need to stop this...”

“This what?”

 “Whatever this is.” _Great job, Ackerman. Making yourself clear as frosted glass._

 

Meanwhile, Eren’s eyes are a window to his soul as usual. He squints at me cautiously, like he is unsure whether I might leap up and bite him.

 “Right... I’m not saying that I want to see you all the time... but I can’t just never... I need to see you again. Or at least know I can contact you. You need to have some damn good reasons if you think I’m letting you disappear after Friday.”

 “Eren. Me disappearing is for the best. I'm not the best person.”

"So what? I'm not exactly perfect.” _You're close enough, Eren._

“You deserve better than me anyway. Someone your own age."

"You don't get to decide that, Levi."

"Anyway, past experience proves that I'm better off alone.

“No one’s better alone. I can show you—” _Stop looking at me like I'm some injured animal..._

“I don’t need some kid showing me anything—” 

“I’m NOT a kid. I make my own decisions!”

“Sure. Shitty decisions like getting shit faced on national TV. Punching a stranger in the jaw for making a jerk comment. Chasing after someone who would only end up fucking hurting you.”

“I... I don’t believe that.”

“Then you’re a first class idiot. I’m not relationship material. Giving into a misguided crush was wrong of me. For that I’m fucking sorry. But—”

“Seriously? That’s what you think? That you’re just some random crush?”

“We’ve known each other two days. What the hell else can it be?” _Shit. I really shouldn’t let questions like that escape me._ Eren chews his lip, shoulders bunched together.

“Don’t know,” he says slowly. “But I want to find out.”

"You’ll have forgotten all about this by the time the show airs.”

 

THUD!

 

Eren’s fist collides with the tree trunk before I can stop him. He snarls at me like a cornered animal, paying no mind to the scraped knuckles.

“You really think I can do that? That I have conversations like this all the time!” I try to ignore the state of him, the beads of blood dripping from his hand. I meet Eren’s darting eyes with what I hope is sincerity.

“I remember what it was like being your age. You move on.”

“Stop blaming this on my age! I told you I don’t care. Why do you?”

“It’s not just that. I live hours away and spend most the year filming around the country. It's hardly ideal.”

Eren worries his bottom lip furiously while I rack up the courage to deliver the final blows as softly as possible.

 

I am not sure how long we have stood in silence. Long enough for Eren to wear an expression of concern, edged with hope. Faint, yet still clinging on.

He makes the decision to reach for my hands, holding them gently like the person they belong to isn’t a heartless bastard. Like I’m someone to be treasured. And like a fool, I allow it. Hell, I need this right now and grip his fingers a little too tightly to be entirely comfortable.

“Levi... can we just try?” he asks again, flexing his fingers until I loosen my grip.

The reasons why we can’t 'just try' have become fuzzy. Paling into insignificance. My resolve is falling apart brick by brick each for each second my hands remain cradled in Eren’s warm ones. His thumbs rub gentle circles into my palms while his eyes burn intensely into mine until I am certain that I will dream in shades of emerald tonight.

It takes all my strength to gently squeeze Eren's hands one last time and let go.

Eren's chin dips. Stray strands of hair fall into his eyes. He looks so lost and forlorn that before I realise it is happening I am clearing the strands away from his face, selfishly desperate even now for a glimpse of his bright, beautiful eyes, now raw and shiny with hurt. All because of me.

 "You win," he says quietly. Admitting defeat. I've never felt less of a loser in my life.

“Eren. This is for the best," I attempt to convince him. And myself.

"Best for you, maybe."

"For both of us. I have given you good reasons-"

“- Yeah! You’re lightyears older than me _and live on the fucking moon_ ,” he says in a mocking voice. “I know, already! And I keep telling you that I don’t care about all that shit. So why do you? Can you at least tell me that?”

I have no answer. It’s not so much that _I_ care about all of those things. But others surely would. What would the brat’s colleagues think? His friends? Family? How long until he realises things would be simpler with someone his own age, from his own social group. Someone who doesn’t spend most the year travelling all over the country and does the sort of romantic shit that someone like Eren probably wants.

 

“Coward.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever you’re afraid of. Hurting me. Getting hurt. That’s not good enough.”

“Okay.” I tip a shoulder into a shrug while Eren seethes, one foot tapping restlessly and eyes flashing with anger.

“What do you mean, ‘okay’? Nothing about this is okay!”

“I’m a coward. Another reason this can’t work.”

“Know what, Levi. FUCK YOU!” 

 

I try to remember that this is for the best. Eren lets out an exasperated breath, eyes squeezed shut and I fear he is about to cry. Thankfully, when he raises his eyes to mine they are dry. However they are also devoid of expression. His tone is flat when he says, "So that's it."

As painful as this is to witness, I am relieved that he is finally resigning himself to the reality. “Kissing me was a mistake... right?” A flicker of hope still hangs on in his eyes.

“That’s right,” I grit out, determined not to convey the tangle of emotions at war within me.

I reach out to pat his hair, but think better of it, nodding curtly instead. I don’t think he notices, eyes still trained on the grass. “You’ll be okay for tonight?” I ask.

“Mmhm.” I take his murmured response as a cue that this conversation is over. I take my leave, stepping over Francis whose dark eyes seem to judge me for a moment before the dog cautiously approaches Eren's feet. The teen's knees buckle like a deck chair and he all but falls on the cocker spaniel, wrapping his tanned arms around the dog and burying his face in his fur.

I realise I have stopped and snap my head back towards the park exit. I do not look back again, but that does nothing to dull the memory of Eren hugging that dog and trying not to cry.

This was meant to be the right thing to do. So why is it that I feel like the shittiest human in the world?


	12. The Third Night: Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhhm. Sorry for slow updates. Got 'let go' at work last week and wasn't feeling like writing. 
> 
> Still, I enjoy all your comments and things.

**The Third Night: Mess**

Hange’s haphazard journey through Trost’s cobbled shopping district is reminiscent to the frenzied flight a mayfly. My calves are working overtime in an effort to keep up. Even Mike with legs like stilts is slightly red-faced. Meanwhile, it is all we can do to get a shot of something other than the swish of her ponytail as she presses her nose against every shop window.

Mike and I take in turns following the eccentric into various delicatessens, wine stores and the like with the portable camera. The lucky one stands guard duty over the ever-growing collection of bags for life, which Hange seemingly plucks from midair like Trost’s shittiest magician to stuff her latest purchase in.

“Shut up, I’m saving the environment,” Hange says to me as she whips out another bag. This one is bright red and covered with fruits. I roll my eyes at Hange because haven’t actually _said_ anything. Although my expression makes it plain how very unimpressed I am with her feeble attempt at morality. We both know she’s simply hell-bent on saving 5p every time she can by using her own bag instead of asking for a plastic carrier.

Mike barely interacts with me as we make our not so merry way through the shopping district. Some might call this older district of Trost ‘quaint’. In reality it is just inconvenient. The cobbled streets are a pain, with sudden narrow points causing unavoidable human congestion. All this is made worse by the fact that we are obviously filming. Whenever we reach a new area, the few sods that first notice the cameras spread news of our location like bees doing the waggle dance. Within seconds, the greater masses are on us. My death-stare, as Erwin likes to call it, is enough to keep the kids away. On a day like this when I am in a shitty mood anyway, they sometimes cry. It happens right now to a pair of snotty brats who scurried through the legs of adults to get this close, only to get hit full in the face with my dark expression and burst into tears. Their mothers scowls at me as she scoops them up. I don’t care.

Just like I don’t want to be here on this too-bright day. The sun so stinking hot that I regret wearing all black. All I want is this complete shitter of a week to be over. Nothing more than a bad taste which can be overwhelmed and eventually forgotten.

Mike is saying my name. Practically shouting at me to be heard over the babble around us.

“Levi. It’s your turn.”

I look for Hange. But there’s no sight of her. We’re outside the front of what looks to be a run down second-hand shop. It’s the sort with trestle tables outside advertising 50p wares, promising more bargains (and an atmosphere of stale despair) inside. A manikin leans awkwardly against the window as if seeking escape. Surely shitty-glasses can’t be in there.

 

“Your turn,” Mike repeats, pointing to the shabby excuse for a shop.

 _Not a chance._ “No.”

“But we agreed.”

“No. I’ll take the next one.” Mike frowns, one hand tapping his belt.

“I need a break from that...” he seems to struggle for the word, “ _woman_. She was _15 minutes_ in that cheese place.”

 _On another day I might be teasing him about that._ Not that I can be bothered now. Nor was I paying any attention to how long Mike was inside.

“Levi! Hello?” Oh, right. He didn’t understand ‘no’ the first time.

“I’m staying right fucking here.” I plant my feet deliberately and shove my palms into Mike’s burly chest. “Go. Or you can tell Erwin he’s down a cameraman.” I feel wetness on my lips and brush away the spittle with a knuckle. Mike looks at me like I punched him instead of pushed him towards the shitty shop. I turn my back on him and return to thinking of ways to make the next 2 days go quicker. If getting shitfaced was an option I’d be downing shots now. As it stands, I give just enough fucks about my job to keep me from doing anything that stupid.

When Mike returns with a beaming Hange I hold out an olive branch by offering to go into the next two stores (so long as they aren’t second-hand). Mike grunts in agreement.

 

Hange next lights upon one of those tiny shops which somehow manages to sell everything from DIY to giftware. She embraces the owner with a sloppy hug, with whom she has made a pre-order. I already have a bad feeling about this and my instincts are proved correct when the man serving her swiftly bags up a selection of bottles and small canisters. I notice that he attempts to keep the labels facing away from the camera. However, nothing can hide the flash of bright yellow warning stickers, or the sound of shitty-glasses laughing manically as she shares the plans she has in store for tonight.

Something tells me it will be a small miracle if no one gets hurt.

* * *

 

As would be expected of the pack mules we have become, we are bone weary by the time Hange’s door is in sight. Mike and I carry 5 overstuffed bags for life between us along with my enormous camera bag and Mike’s sound equipment.

Most of our haul isn’t food for tonight but random pieces of crap which the human foghorn insists she needs for her ‘geek chic’ ambience. Whatever the hell that is. The contents of our bags scream _shit_ rather than _chic_ , in my opinion.

Hange relieves us eagerly of her purchases, lining them along the wall with the rest. Yes, there are more bags. Boxes too. Mike and I attempt to find a clear space to begin assembling our equipment. To no avail.

It’s like a child tried to recreate Aladdin’s cave in here with only the contents of a run-down charity shop to hand. I mean, why the fuck is there a partially deflated lilo draped over the sofa? What’s with the pile of rugs in the middle of the room? And most concerning of all, what are the collections of canisters with peeling labels doing on Hange’s dining table?

The eccentric in question is oblivious to our dilemma. Even Mike is wrinkling his nose as he sweeps a river of DVDs aside with his shoe. Meanwhile I am elbow deep in my camera bag, constructing the tripod awkwardly in the air so as to make damn sure that as few of my body parts come into contact with the filthy carpet as possible. I’ve seen documentaries of the sort of things which live in _clean_ carpets. It would not surprise me in the least if some of the critters beneath our feet are new to science. I have never been more grateful for thick soled boots. Okay. There was that one time where a contestant’s chihuahua peed where I was standing. Being in Hange’s home is the second most disgusting experience.

 The eccentric herself is oblivious to our – my – horror as I proceed across her living room with my assembled camera and tripod held aloft, like I am crossing a river in the Amazon. She digs through each bag frantically as if searching for lost treasure. Not finding what she is looking for, her upper body disappears completely into the largest box. A few seconds later she emerges in a state of metamorphosis like a butterfly which has collided with every holiday season. Patches of silver tinsel are caught in her hair while her arms are draped in strings of fairy lights and silky yellow ribbons. She cradles a cracked disco ball proudly to her breast and breaks open the seal of a plastic bag with her teeth. Glow-in-the-dark balloons pour out onto floor.

 “Arooh gwuys gunna alp?” she asks, with another packet still between her teeth. We blink at her until the plastic wrapper dribbles disgustingly from her mouth. “I said ‘are you guys ‘gonna help... or are you two here to look pretty?” The redhead wiggles her eyebrows manically.

Like fuck am I touching anything Hange has in those boxes. I have enough of a job getting room shots that could be sent straight into an application pack for ‘Obsessive Compulsive Cleaners’. Come to think of it, that shit’s more than likely seeing as the same studio is responsible for that heap of trash too.

“She’s all yours.” I proclaim to Mike, clap a hand on his back while he puffs his cheeks in exasperation. Hange becons him over with both arms like a human windmill and we part ways midway through the tide of crap she calls floor space.

When my back is turned to him I am smirking, because this serves him right for earlier. When he returned from the general store Hange visited first bearing a thick, black scarf, dumping the thing on my shoulders before I could react. His argument being that if I am going to ‘scowl like a bitch for the whole trip’ then he’d rather not be exposed for the whole time. Bullshit. It was just another tactic in his increasingly desperate attempts to get me to spill about what happened with Eren in the park. Mike noticed straight away that something was amiss when we met up to fetch Hange. The nosy blonde spouted a heap of bullshit on the topic. Something about having a whiff of fresh despair about me. Ripe yet tangy. Whatever that means. Leave it to Mike to describe complex human emotions like he’s examining a wheel of cheese.

As he soon discovered, the effort to get me to talk was a lost cause anyway. Because I am not sharing any of what happened in the park with any of my interfering colleagues. Hell, I’m not even letting myself remember the details. Indeed, much of the time wandering the streets of Trost was devoted entirely to the task of not thinking about a certain, bright-eyed brat.

Yet. Again and again there are flashes of this morning. Sometimes his expression. Flirtatious. Happy. Sad. But most often his voice is what returns to haunt me. A voice thick and dripping with sadess: “ _Levi...I thought..._ ” _“Can we just try?” “Levi. Levi. Levi.”_

 

Occasionally an image returns of his earlier smirk. Feral and so typically Eren as he whispers a promise: “ _You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”_

But I have got rid of him. Haven’t I? Eren told me just that. Admitted that when he uttered ‘ _you win_.’ Then he got _so_ angry. And much more upset than I expected. Again, this is all for the good. He can spend the next two nights hating me and I can spend two days (and longer) trying to scrape away all living memory of him and his soft tanned skin, so hot under my touch, his addictive mouth, spilling the most precious little moans into my mouth, his green eyes that suck me in every fucking time.

 _No. What the hell am I doing?_ It has been this way all day since the park. Every attempt to forget about the brat, or harbour negative feeling has the opposite effect.

 

Fuck this. I need to focus on the present moment. Now we’re at Hange’s there’s plenty to do. As much as shitty glasses would love to have us both pumping party balloons and hanging streamers, she’ll have to make do with Mike. Some of us have actual work to be getting on with.

I venture upstairs with my tripod held above me and the camera bag slung across my back. This must be what wildlife cameramen feel like; wading through rivers (of clothes) and keeping a sharp eye out for anything that might come out and bite you. In this case, the perils are various breakables such as coffee cups, test tubes and what feels like dozens of pairs of round frame glasses of the sort that Hange is constantly sliding back up her nose.

I complete the necessary shots around Hange’s ‘home’ like I’m an intruder on borrowed time. I swear if Erwin complains that the angles aren’t dead straight I will rub his nose into the pile of stained lab coats at the bottom of Hange’s wardrobe.

Ah. Speak of the devil and he shall arrive. I can hear the hard slam of the door, then Erwin asking for me, Mike’s reply, then the heavy thud of boots on the staircase. Something is off. Why does Erwin need to see me _right now_. What have I done? I rack my brain but there can only be one explanation.

 

“Levi.” Erwin is panting. His cheeks are beet red like he’s been running. Or shouting. Possibly both. “It’s Eren.”

“What’s the brat done?” I try to look disinterested, but inside my heart is racing.

“He has just contacted us to say that he’s not coming tonight.”

I raise my chin to face Erwin’s narrowed eyes. “And why is that my problem?”

“You tell me, Levi.” I cannot suppress the tight burning rising in my throat and am forced to take a thick gulp. “You’re the last person to have spoken to him.”

“Are you suggesting I scared him off?”

“Did you?”

Suddenly I am on the defensive. “No. He was the one breaching personal boundaries. I reminded him of his place. That’s all.”

“Right. Well now he won’t talk to us. To me or Petra anyway. Maybe he’ll talk to you.”

“Didn’t you just hear me say—”

“I forget how stubborn you can be sometimes. I’m going to explain this once and you are going to hang onto my every word, because I suspect you are fully responsible for the disappearance of a contestant who needs to be _here_ in under an hour. Now, I don’t know what happened between you earlier and we don’t have time to waste.”

“Agreed.”

“Alright. I suspect that Eren _will_ speak with you. If you ask _nicely._ And Levi, this is the important part: you get him back. Do you care for him?”

His question throws me off-guard. There’s no time to think. I grumble out an “of course not,” while throwing Erwin an irritated look. He seems to buy it. A fact that is confirmed by his next words. If anything, the fucker sounds relieved.

“Okay. The plan of action is as follows. You call him, Levi and you put on the best damn performance of your life. Beg him to be here if you have to.”

 _Like fuck am I begging._ “And if that isn’t enough?”

“Can you really afford to find out?”

Erwin has me pinned and he knows it. Sure, he isn't such a dick that he would sack me over this. But what if I make another mistake? I can’t go through the hell of finding another position again. I can’t listen to Mikasa’s disappointment which grows heavier each time.

“Where’s the damn phone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random: Eren isn't AWOL because of his conversation with Levi. That would be a bit overdramatic.


	13. The Third Night: Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *pokes cauldron with a wooden spoon* Hmm. I know just what this needs:
> 
> *throws MOAR characters in* Sizzle sizzle.  
> *grates an entire block of hope* Please let this get less angsty.  
> *throws in strands of Eren's hair* POOF! 
> 
> *serves up a partial Eren POV chapter.*
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of suicide... No, it's no one you know. Eren works at an emergency call centre, remember.

**The Third Night: Priorities**

 

I bite my lip in an attempt not to call out to Levi as he marches away. Saying something now would do no good. I can only watch the back of his bowed head, the stiff swinging of his arms, legs pumping like he’s fleeing a sudden downpour. Like he couldn’t care less.

I know that’s not true.

I can’t believe that Levi is going to march straight out of the park gate without turning around. He knows how upset I am. He’ll want to check that I’m not doing anything stupid and I’ll have proof that he really does care.

I don’t expect much from Levi any more. Since the excitement of our hurried, half-finished kiss at Jean’s place, there has been nothing but confusion and disappointment. I don’t know if we can enter a proper relationship. We are separated by years and distance. But there are always other options, if the man will act his age then we could talk about it. 

 

Levi cares that he has upset me. When I held his hands earlier, there was a moment where I honestly thought he was about to cave in and tell me that _of course_ we will stay in touch. Fool that I am, I waited, rubbing warmth into his slender hands, waiting for an admission which never came.

If the man just outright rejected me, it would be easier. Instead, my thoughts are a mess. The fact that he held on to my hands (even for a few moments) proves that his resolve to shun me is thinner than he thinks. I’ll punch through if that what it takes. Because Levi _does_ care.

All this about never seeing me again after filming is bollocks and we both know it. He wants that second kiss as much as I do.

 

Levi is halfway to the park gate now. He has to turn around. I don’t expect much from Levi right now. Hell, I don’t know if he would ever be ready to try something like a normal relationship with me, but I do trust him to give me a parting glance. So I wait for him.

Any moment now.

Francis comes to sit by my side, tail drumming out the seconds. I even out my breathing and smooth my expression, ready to meet crisp grey eyes with determined green ones. He’ll see I’m not wallowing in self pity. I’m not the one giving up. He’ll realise that I won’t be brushed aside for any of the stupid reasons that he wants to lay at my feet.

Any. Second. Now.

 

I exhale in a hot rush as Levi disappears through the park gate without breaking his stride and without so much as turning his head.

 

I was so sure. An unpleasant tingling spreads through my limbs. Then heaviness, like I’ve overdone it at the gym. Then – _oh no_ – a tight coil of anger squeezes in the pit of my stomach. I’m powerless. A heavy veil mutes out all shred of reasonable thought. Blinds me to the fact that I’m in a public place. I send a full bodied kick to the tree I punched earlier and don’t remember much after that.

I don’t know how long I kick the shit out of this damn tree for, only that by the time I can think in a straight line, the rubber soles of my converse are damaged beyond repair.

 

A drawn out whine from Francis alerts me to the  audience which has gathered. They gawp from a self distance. Parents hurry their their pointing children along. I hear their thoughts all the same.

“Why is he hurting the tree, Daddy?”

“...Is he a monster?”

“Why can’t I kick trees too? But Mummm! I’m almost grown up.”

 

 “Show’s over already!” I growl, which serves to scatter most of the onlookers. I try to ignore the snide remarks, focusing all my attention on Francis who is observing me cautiously from a few meters away. I feel infinitely guilty at upsetting Armin’s dog.

I drop cautiously to the dog’s level, keeping my distance. A warm snout soon presses into my palm. “I’m so sorry, boy. It’s okay now,” I reassure him, fussing him gently behind the ears the way he likes best. After a few moments Francis is relaxed, mouth open and tongue lolling happily as I rub firmer circles into his fur.

 

A strong, acidic smell alerts me to the fact that we have company.

A balding, elderly man who is clearly pissed bends down precariously to my level. He jabs a finger in the direction of the tree before coming to rest on me and shoves a beaten hipflask under my nose.

“No... thanks” Francis leans into my arm in an instruction to continue fussing him.

“You sure look like you could use a pick-me-up.” The man flicks the cap open in a surprisingly deft action considering he looks at risk of toppling over in his crouched position. I can’t guess what type of alcohol is inside. Whatever it is makes my eyes water.

“I said _no_. I don’t drink.” It’s half-true. Last night was the most alcohol I ever had in one go. 

“Sheesh. Kids these days. No respect,” he grumbles, knees creaking as he rights himself and wanders off.

 

Perhaps if I didn’t have responsibility over Francis I would have taken a swig from the man’s flask. As it is, I should be getting him back to Armin’s place then heading back to my flat. Petra’s due to pick me up in less than two hours. My stomach churns at the thought, because I’ll have to see _him_ again. I suspect that Levi is planning to hide behind his camera for the entirety of the two nights remaining, and decide that if that is how he wants to play it, I’ll let him.

Ny best chance to get through to him will surely be the daytime interviews. Levi has been here to do those every day so far. Although... what if he doesn’t tomorrow? What if it’s Petra or Mike instead?

I figure it’s no use worrying about that. In fact it would be best to forget about Levi altogether.

I kick some pebbles along the path. I can;t stop myself from remembering the way Levi looked as he walked away from me, down this same path. So obviously unhappy, yet desperate to escape the situation. If I had called him, would it have made a difference? Would he have turned then or simply increased his pace?

 _Fuck._ I’m supposed to be not thinking about Levi _._ It will be bad enough trying to act normal tonight, which I really want to do because I’m sure Hange is pulling out all the stops for her night.

At the very least I can get Francis back to Armin’s without thinking about Levi again. Right?

 

...

When I resolve to do something, I usually have no problems in following through. So when I arrive in front of Armin’s front door and my ‘conversation’ with Levi is still racing through my mind, I’m understandably pissed off.

When I open the door, Francis pushes past my knees, claws skittering on Armin’s wooden floor in a mad rush for the front room. Strange. Francis usually dances circles around me in an attempt to stop me from leaving. He never shoots off like this.

Could Armin be home already? He shouldn’t be. His shift at the emergency centre doesn’t finish until 4pm. It’s why he asks me to walk his dog the same time each week. I never mind. Armin helps me out more than he realises, which is weird considering how insanely smart he is. Take work, in the space of 6 months he has progressed from a standard emergency call handler to a training mentor. Even I am sometimes in awe when I listen to him tackling a difficult call, explaining things effortlessly in a way the caller cannot fail to understand, helping scared, vulnerable people see things in a different light.

 

 _Huh?_ That’s definitely Armin’s voice coming from the front room, accompanied by a shaky sort of laughter which makes me nervous without even seeing him.

I step into the living room to the sight of Francis greeting his owner with sloppy kisses. Armin is clearly not okay. I can tell he was recently curled up on the sofa from the bent pillow at the other end. If I wasn’t on filming, he probably would have called me the moment he got home. Worryingly, it looks as though he forgot all about me taking Francis out.

“Oh. Hey.” Armin throws me a washy smile which is fooling no one, especially not his oldest friend.

“Hey yourself.” I squeeze in beside him on the sofa, ending up with Francis’s back end while Armin absently strokes his fur. “So...” I prompt. “Going to tell me what happened?”

Armin doesn’t answer straight away. His blue eyes look far away and he seems smaller than usual with both legs tucked under him.

“No,” he finally says. “You already look stressed. Is it the filming?”

“I know what you’re doing, Armin. I’m not the one we need to be worried about.”

“Please don’t worry about me. We’ll talk Monday, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. I’m staying and we’re going to talk about it.”

“It’s nothing.”Armin has long stopped stroking Francis, who nudges his palm a few times and gives up, going to curl up in his basket.

“Bad call at work?” I venture. No matter how good you are, it’s always possible to be floored by something really awful.

I see that I am right from the twitch or Armin’s mouth.

“What about filming tonight? Shouldn’t you be somewhere?” It is a fair point. One glance at the wall clock proves that it’s later than I thought. Petra might already be on the way to pick me up. Armin makes a move to get up from the sofa, but I’m having none of it.

“Eren! You need to get going,” he insists, barely fighting me as I effectively pin him down. He doesn’t bother to resist. Nor does he look at me. Now I’m really worried. I can’t leave him like this.

“I’m going nowhere,” I tell him, releasing one hand to pull out my phone and jabbing in the number for Erwin. It’s a shame that I am letting Hange down, but Armin has to come first. It’s been a long time since I have seen my best friend like this and if our roles were reversed, he would do the same for me.

I apologise politely to Erwin, but may as well be screeching down the phone from the gravity of Erwin’s reaction and his insistence that he cannot accept my decision. Iexplain that there has been a personal emergency, but Erwin simply repeats in a voice which sounds gradually less calm that I have signed a ‘legally binding contract’. The way Erwin puts it, it’s like I’ve sold him my soul for the week.

We are going around in circles when I decide enough is enough, firmly stating for the final time that I am _not_ coming tonight and hanging up.

Erwin doesn’t call back. Surely he is not accepting defeat so easily. I imagine he is organising a retrieval operation.  Good luck with that. None of the team know Armin’s address.

“Right, now that’s sorted, are you having tea or coffee?”

“Either’s fine.” Armin turns away from me, looking like he would like nothing more than to melt into the faux leather of his sofa.

“Alright. I’ll be back in one minute.”

I pull a box of peppermint green tea out of Armin’s well-stocked cupboard and flick the kettle on. Dealing with the guilt Armin has heaped upon himself won’t be easy. He probably didn’t even take a break after dealing with the call which upset him, choosing to soldier on until the shift manager picked up on his distress.

I return with two steaming mugs. We sit at either ends of the sofa, facing each other.

 _Bzzzt! Bzzzzzt! Bzzt!_ I pull my phone from my pocket without checking the number and press the end call button. I refocus on Armin.

 “If it was me, you’d want me to tell you.”

“Mm.”

“So, tell me. What happened?”

 “Preventable suicide.” His admission is barely a whisper and he still won’t look at me. This is no good. I shuffle closer to him and lightly hold his forearms. His sad, blue eyes meet mine.

This explains everything. No matter how good you are, some calls are pure hell. Suicidal patients are always difficult. You are a medical advisor, social councillor and a source of hope all at once. You must listen intently, gleaning essential details from the caller - but also take control. It’s difficult to find the balance between instinct and what we are trained to do. Yelling “DON’T DO IT!” is unlikely to be enough when a caller is genuinely on the verge of stepping off a ledge, taking those pills, slicing that razor. Yet neither is letting a caller justify their decision by explaining it all to you any good. The best call handlers are firm, yet understanding. And Armin is one of the best. He will have done everything possible to save them.

Their choice is not his fault. Getting him to believe that is the hard part.

 

_Bzzt! Bzzzzzt!_

Of all the times... I briefly release Armin to end the call without breaking eye contact.

“You don’t know it was preventable,” I reason. He wears a thoughtful expression which means he is trying to pick holes in my logic. “Armin. It _wasn’t your fault_.”

“It was.  H-he said... He said he wasn’t sure if he wanted to. That he wouldn’t jump if—”

“Armin.”

“I was the last voice— when h-he—”

 _Bzzt! Bzzzzzzt Bzzt!_ “Fuck. I’m turning it off!” But Armin has other ideas. He grabs the phone from my hands and holds it behind him, frowning when I try and fail to snatch it back.

“You should call them back and say you’ll be there. I’m only causing you trouble.”

_Bzzt! Bzzt!_

“Armin! Stop blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault! I want to be here.”

_Bzzzzzzt! Bzzt!_

“If he got through to someone else... maybe he would still be alive...”

“Please turn my damn phone off!”

“No, you should answer it.” He holds my phone out at arm’s length. The screen is dark and the device blissfully silent.

_Bzzzzt!_

_“That’s it!”_ I hurl the damn thing at the wall with a _thunk_. The battery sails a few feet from the rest. Good. That should shut it up.

“Armin, you are the one of the best damn call handlers I know. Newbies ask me to _ask_ _you_ for advice. All the time! You’re actually amazing. Just... believe me, okay. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing you can do. If you still don’t trust me, I’ll listen to the call and tell you again that it’s not your fault. I’ll tell you every day until you do.”

“Of course I trust you. Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For saying that. Believing in me. And for staying.”

“Like I would do anything less for you. For a genius you really can be thick sometimes,” I say with absolutely no malice, resting on my knees and pulling Armin into an embrace so tight that he squeaks.

We drink our tea, dig out some much needed ice cream and see if there’s anything worth watching on Netflix. We settle on an action film. Armin doesn’t retreat to the other side of the sofa, instead he grabs a cushion to rest his head against and places it on my lap. My hands move automatically, enclosing Armin’s slender shoulders, one hand flowing freely through his hair, so fine and smooth unlike my own.

 

We are barely 10 minutes into the film when I sense Armin is relaxed to the point of being possibly asleep. I don’t want to accidently wake him, so I carefully lean forward so our faces our almost touching. As suspected, he’s out like a light.  That’s when I hear the sound.

_Tap. Tap-tap._

I look to the bay window. I can’t see much through the slim gaps in the blinds, but what I do see is enough to confirm the impossible. _Levi is here_.

His intense silver eyes peer through, unreadable as he continues to tap his knuckles delicately on the glass.

I am achingly aware of how this must look, Armin sleeping in my lap, my hands stroking through his hair a moment ago. I find myself heating up under just knowing he is here.

Levi barks a “OI! Shitty brat!” Armin bolts upright and looks between me and the window with confusion.

“One of the crew,” I tell him, while Armin’s whole body shudders with the force of a huge yawn. “Go,” he says. “I really am okay now. Just... tired,” he says while suppressing a second yawn.

“Promise to call if you need me.”

“I promise.”

“Okay then.” I take a deep breath and go to confront the man who by all rights shouldn’t have been able to find me.

 

* * *

 

 

If not for the existence of a dog’s name tag, I’d have to deal with Erwin’s furiously constipated expression all night.

Erwin had produced a typed page with Eren’s contact details, not realising that I already have a hand written copy in my hotel room. The slip of paper is currently sitting on the complementary bible even the shittiest of hotels feel the need to stock. It’s not like I deliberately worked to memorise Eren’s number.  I have a good memory for these sort of things. It’s why it suddenly dawned on me where Eren _could_ be.

_22 Rose Avenue._

The address engraved into his friend’s dog’s collar. I noticed it when pulling the drooling heap of shit off my boots.

So, after 4 unsuccessful tries reaching Eren’s phone, I stroll into Erwin’s little crisis meeting in Hange’s rear jungle – to call it a garden is rich for this overgrown mess – and boldly announce that I am leaving to fetch Eren. Mike’s brow furrows as he sees straight through my false confidence. Sure, the friend’s house is a lead but there’s no guarantee Eren will actually be there. Not that I’m telling Erwin that. He’s looking more his usual self and less like someone about to shit a brick. Petra offers to join me. I remark that I think I can handle one teenage delinquent.

 

All the way on the short drive to his friend’s place, I consider the concept that this is somehow my fault. Instinct tells me it isn’t. He is not so petty as to let people down because he underestimated how much of an ass I am. Or is he?

How much do I really understand about Eren?

Is he actually more hurt than I imagine? Was walking out on him in the park a mistake?

 _No_ , I tell myself. Boundaries needed to be set. Walls which are still firmly in place.

 

I park the taxi a few doors down. If Eren is here, he could make a run for it. I’m not letting the brat slip through my fingers and risk my career. It’s barely hanging by a thread as it is.

Number 22 was once a family home, which is now split into two apartments. Not like I am expecting a neon sign, but there is no evidence that Eren is here. The slats on the bay window are open slightly. It can’t hurt to check before knocking.

 

I bend down to peer through the windows, not caring how this might look to neighbours.

_Oh._

Eren is here. What’s more he’s not alone.

Looks like I am wrong to even consider that Eren might be upset.

He’s clearly _quite happy_.

The TV’s on, but Eren only has eyes for the blonde brat sprawled across his legs, fast asleep. He twirls his fingers playfully in the blonde’s hair for a while, then leans over his face as if to wake him with a kiss.

I rap the glass and Eren’s eyes shoot up, astonished. That makes sense. But then...  fear.

 _Oh_ , I guess he didn’t plan on telling me about his bratty little boyfriend.

Not that it’s any of my business to care about something like that.

Not that I _do_ care. Or anything.

 

_Fuck._

Okay. I care a bit.

Now to beat his ass for skiving off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience with the slow updates (AND THE EVEN SLOWER PLOT). This was meant to be a short, happy fic. ;_;  
> I swear, me planning a fic and actually writing it is like planning to buy a puppy and coming home with an angsty, teenage dragon.
> 
> Raarggghh. 
> 
> Also, is it wrong of me to want Levi to get hit over the head with a frying pan at some point? Maybe Hange... she totally ships ereri. :P
> 
> Lastly, did you guess who the drunk in the park is meant to be?


	14. The Third Night: Explain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suppose I have some explaining to do too. Looking to get updates more regular. 
> 
> Thoughts appreciated as always. Have been struggling with this a bit.

**The Third Night: Explain**

The traffic light turns red; I brake rough. The taxi jolts to a stop.

I hear a soft thump as Eren slams into the backseat from the impact. He makes no other sound. Apparently he would rather brood in silence than care to explain himself. That’s fine by me.

Cursing lightly under my breath, I loosen an over-tight grip on the steering wheel. My knuckles click at the action. They never used to.

I watch the steady red light and work to gather the composure which was so effectively shattered by the sight of Eren and that blond kid. They were in a secluded little bubble. The blond smiling sweetly in his sleep while Eren plays with his hair.

They looked good together.

I want to be at least a little happy that Eren has someone who appears decent, not to mention is close-by and a similar age. Yet I can’t manage even a single positive thought.

Eren deceived me. The raw truth of it cuts deep. As pathetic as I feel for falling for his innocence act, blondie has it far worse. How many other older men has Eren messed with behind his young boyfriend’s back? Do I even want to know?

The light turns amber, then green. I work to focus on the road and not the shitty brat in the back seat. How hard can that be?

 _Very_ apparently.

His silence is suspicious and his unquestioning compliance more so. I did not expect Eren to come quietly when I opened the passenger door of the taxi and gestured sharply for him to get in. What’s more, when I snapped at him to get his face off the glass ealier, he quit pressing against the window like a caught animal and sunk low into the leather.

 

As I continue to drive us to Hange’s, the odd frustrated sigh escapes him, barely audible. I am met with his guarded green eyes each time it is necessary to glance into the rear view mirror. It occurs to me that he is probably waiting for me to shout at him.

I should, all things considered.

Perhaps that’s what he wants. I clearly know fuck all about the brat and am reluctant to get into a conversation which could expose how fucking _disgusting_ I feel for taking the great efforts I have to look out for him. Pushing him away because it’s best for him then spending every second since doubting the decision.

Clearly I needn’t have bothered. It seems this is all a game to him. Maybe he has some kink for messing with older men.

No shouting, I decide. He needs to see that I don’t care. That he hasn’t got one over on me.

 

Approaching a junction, I have no choice but to glance again into the rear view mirror again. This time, Eren’s eyes are bright, alert with not a shred of guilt in them. He is quick to lock on to my reflection. His lips part slowly, uncertain. As if he is afraid of saying something stupid.

“Levi,” he says in a small voice, “are you mad at me?” _Is he seriously asking this?_

“What do you think?”

“So, are you?”

“I’m disappointed.” I reply far too honestly. Eren’s head falls back on the leather. A long breath escapes him.

“You make that sound even worse.”

“It is.” I reply while glowering at the stretch of road in front of me. I can hear Eren shifting about the whole time.

“Can I ask why you're disappointed?”

I glance into the mirror sceptically. Does he think I didn’t cotton on to him and blondie? Eren’s hands in his hair? Looking so damn happy... yet, Eren _still_ does not look guilty. It occurs that he hasn’t once seemed so since tapping on Armin’s window. Could I be wrong about what I saw? If so, why hasn’t Eren explained?

“You just did,” I reply, leaving it at that. Eren simply huffs and withdraws back into silence.

 

“Okay. Then how did you find me?” he asks after a while. There’s no harm in answering that one, I suppose.

“The mutt has an address tag. I took a chance and there you both were.”

“Oh... Francis? Makes sense. That dog means the world to Armin.”

“And what’s Armin mean to you?” Fuck. There’s the reason I didn’t want to get talking. Talking means stuff like that can slip out without permission. Eren shifts upright from his previously slouched position. Leans forward slowly. His eyes are bright and dangerous. The previously docile creature in the back seat is no more.

“What do you care?”

“Just answer me.”

“Levi, are you jealous of Armin?”

 

I should not be surprised by now that Eren is straight to the point. I notice he is straining forward against the belt now, both hands on his knees. “When I saw you at the window, you looked angry...”

“No shit. You ran off and Erwin blamed me for it.”

“Really?"

"Yes."

“I'm sorry that I caused you guys trouble," he says while fiddling with his nails. Armin needed me. He's only a friend. Nothing more.”

“ _Right_.”

“OK. He’s my best friend.”

“Eren.” I turn the taxi sharply round a corner. “You can just say he’s your lover.”

“Lover? Armin’s like a brother to me!” He seems genuine, but I’ve bought his bullshit before. I’m not planning on becoming a repeat customer.

“Okay, Eren.”

“No, it’s not okay! Will you just listen? I can explain everything...” I contemplate his frustration: grit teeth, fingers grasping the front passenger headrest. This can’t be acting, surely.

I nod for Eren to continue while changing lanes. I realise how much I _want_ to be wrong about what I saw.

 

 “Alright. When we were younger, Armin was bullied and I got hurt a few times defending him. Armin’s never forgiven himself. You see, he works at the emergency centre too and there was this call...”

Eren speaks non-stop for minutes. He reveals the basics of how his friend Armin was sent home from work but also goes into more detail than he should about the nature of the call and how his friend has suffered serious depression and self-blame issues in the past. No wonder Eren felt he had no choice other than to stay. Not being allowed a phone on set meant that he would be in the dark, unable to contact his friend and worrying constantly for his welfare.

 

By the time Eren runs dry on words I have no doubt that this is the truth. I curse myself for getting things so damn wrong.  

“Shitty situation.”

“Yeah. But he’s okay now.” Eren catches my raised eyebrow. “And I’m okay to be here.”

“You sure?”

“I think so.”

“You know it was wrong to ditch on us. Erwin’s an old man. You almost gave him a heart attack.”

“I’m sorry. I honestly couldn’t think about anyone else at the time.”

“I get it.”

“You do?” He sounds surprised.

“Shit happens to good people. Trust me, I know.”

“What happened to you?”

 “Do I seem like a good person?

Eren laughs at that. I’ve missed the sound. “You are a good person, I think” he says before lowering his voice. "But seriously, you build these walls up around you so high that I doubt many people get to see it."

I notice that he has crept closer still to my headrest. His ass is barely touching the backseat.

 

“That belt will do fuck all if we crash,” I warn him, to which he rolls his eyes and eases back.

 “Your friend just needs to put things into perspective," I say to change the topic. "People die every second. He should be grateful that it wasn’t someone he cared about.”

“Is that what happened?” This brat will be the end of me. Maybe it’s the nature of his job which has broken his brain-mouth filter.

“Sorry. I didn’t think.” 

"No, you didn't." _Now_ he looks guilty. "Is that so unusual for you?" I add with a smirk.

"I take it back. You are totally the worst person," he says with grin. “Speaking of being the worst, do you think Hange will forgive me for keeping her waiting?”

“Ask her yourself. We’re almost there.”

 

The green destination flag has appeared on the sat nav display. A glance outside shows that I have pulled up not a moment too soon.

The whole team are gathered out front. Hange practically barges past Mike and both of her socked feet leave the floor as she leaps at Eren.

“I knew grumpy would find you,” she declares while shaking him like a near-empty sauce bottle.

“Hange, I’m so sorry. Something came up but it’s sorted now.” Eren returns the embrace and asks into her messy hair, “Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can, silly,” she replies while proceeding to grab Eren’s shirt collar and kiss him on both cheeks.” He blushes, of course and looks back at me sheepishly. Eren does not get a chance to do anything else as Erwin has a large hand on his back and is whisking him inside.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” he calls in a booming voice to the rest of us, “we’re almost _an hour_ behind! Filming starts in 30 seconds.”

Erwin appears willing to forgo explanations for now, for which I am grateful even if I am making a mad dash to get behind the camera.

 

There is no time for the usual greetings. The other guests have already been filmed touring around Hange’s house so Petra simply obtains a few shots of him being greeted by Hange at the door and repeating some lines Erwin has prepared for him.

Eren pretends to trip over a pile of umbrellas as instructed and dutifully follows Erwin’s script while Petra and I make sure to capture everything we need in single takes.

After comparing Hange’s bedroom as a cross between Dexter’s lab and a university dorm, he is finally given the all clear to take a seat at the dining room where he offers sincere apologies to the others. He is cut short, however by Hange holding two trays and charging precariously towards the table.

“Grubs up!” she announces.

We’re finally back on track.


	15. The Third Night: Less Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hange serves up food art. Levi realises his mistakes.
> 
>  
> 
> Reminder: 
> 
> Come Dine With Me Narrator is in bold.  
> This chapter returns to a mix of script and 1st person Levi POV.

**The Third Night: Less Broken  
**

 

_Menu:_

_Asparagus, Goat’s Cheese and Green Tea Tart with Balsamic Spheres_

_Mocha Moroccan Lamb_

_Sub-Zero Hot Chocolate_

_Dress Code: Geek-chic_

 

**Gooood evening! We’re entering the third night of the competition, which means its aspiring food artist, Hange Zoe’s turn to host.**

_Hange sports a tri force T-shirt, skinny jeans and an odd assortment of game and anime themed jewellery._

**Hange:** Ooh, it’s time. _(tapping a syringe filled with ominous black liquid, glasses flashing)_

**AGH! What in God’s name is _that_? **

**Hange:** Are we ready to make some awesome balsamic spheres? Okay, here we go!

**It’s... only vinegar. Phew.**

**Hange:** _(dripping the balsamic into a jug of cold olive oil to form spheres)_ Ahhh, so beautiful!

**It’s different, I’ll give you that.**

**Hange will serve her lovingly crafted spheres alongside an asparagus, goat’s cheese and green tea-yes, you heard correctly- tart.**

**Good luck with that, guys.**

 

* * *

_At the dining table, Historia glitters in a constellation-patterned tunic with black tights and white peep-toe shoes while Jean’s contribution to the ‘geek-chic’ theme is a space invaders tie with matching cufflinks to accompany a deep blue fitted suit. Eren meanwhile is wearing a T shirt borrowed from Hange, featuring a TARDIS emblazoned with the words ‘It’s bigger on the inside’._

**Now that the sci-fi convention – sorry!- dinner part is under way, how about serving some of that art?**

**Hange:** Grubs up!

**Ah, there we go. Oh. Oh no.**

**Hange:** Sorry it’s a bit late! _(rushing into the dining room holding a tray over her head.)_

**(sharp intake of breath)**

_Jean and Eren share a worried look, the latter saying that it’s okay, they can wait. Hange doesn’t need to rush. Historia’s smile becomes a wince as Hange twists in behind Eren’s chair, tray wobbling.)_

**Hange:** Breathe in, Eren. _(Hange tries to squeeze past him)_

 **Eren:**  Please! Let me pass it along.

**Yes, listen to Eren. Eren. The kid’s speaking sense...** _(Hange continues to move along the wall)_ **Hange, I said-**

**Hange:** Nonsense! I’m the hostess with the most-EEK! _(tripping over a chair leg, tray dipping precariously)_ Noo! My art! _(Eren leaps up to catch Hange around the middle, while Jean gets a hold of the tray, but not without casualty)_

 **Jean:** My suit! _(a salad leaf plasters his lapel, Hange plucks it off)_

 **Hange:** There. No damage done. _(Jean glares while Hange dishes up)_ Guys – and girl _(winking at Historia)_ Please tuck in!

_(shot of the delicately arranged food)_ **Huh. If it tastes as good as it looks, Hange might be in with a chance... if she can safely deliver her next two courses to the table.**

 

* * *

 

To everyone’s shock, Hange’s starter hits the mark with just about everyone. A certain teen thinks I don’t see him slipping food into a napkin while deep in conversation with Historia.

Little does Eren realise that he’s been rumbled by more than the camera until Hange leans across the table and jabs an accusing finger at his secret stash. His deer-in-headlights impression is equal parts amusing and cute. It’s okay to think like this, because I am confident that my filming tonight is nothing short of my usual professional standards. It’s good to be back in control.

“Eren I-don’t-know-your-middle-name-Jaeger! I see you hiding my lovingly crafted spheres.” Hange’s face is screwed up in an attempt to look hurt, looking more the nutjob. Especially close up.

“Yeah, well it’s not what it looks like,” Eren counters.

“No?” Hange asks while I swing the camera back and forth towards Jean chortling into his napkin and Historia rolling her eyes.

Eren plants his palms on the table, meets Hange’s narrowed eyes with defiant ones. “I’m saving those balsamic thingamabobs.”

“It’s okay Eren!” She clenches a hand to her heart. “You can just say you don’t like my thingamabobs. I promise not to be too hurt.” Jean’s shoulders tremble with suppressed laughter. My camera is hot on point the moment he releases the sound.

Eren does not look impressed. In fact, his jaw sets in a look I know all too well. “I really _am_ saving these,” he repeats fiercely.

Ah, it’s a relief to see someone _else_ falling apart at under look of sheer determination. Hange’s jaw drops. She attempts to run one hand through that nest she calls hair. One of her heavily ringed hands gets tangled. Freed by the work of Historia’s deft fingers. “They’re for the crew,” Eren elaborates, tilting his head in our direction. “I just thought they should get the chance to try them. They’re that good!” His face lights up in a smile, the kind that has Hange screeching apologies for doubting someone so unbelievably precious. Or some shit.

Hange then expresses that there is no need to save any of her ‘art’, offering to demonstrate the ‘fascinating spherification process’ and her other ‘improvised methods’ in the realm of culinary science. I notice Mike is watching intently, while Erwin fires arrows to deflate Hange’s teaching ambitions.

None of this is something I need to film. While Erwin stresses to Hange that they don’t have time for lessons in molecular gastronomy, my focus is inevitably drawn to Eren’s brutally bright eyes, half-closed in laughter.

Then he smiles. In that effortlessly perfect way.

I stop hearing the others; drawn in by the warmth of that smile like a moth to flame. Getting burnt in the process because even if I can somehow articulate to Eren how badly I’ve fucked up this week, I doubt he’d want to meet me again anyway. This may be one of the last times I see his smile live. I try not to think about the alternative; sitting pathetically in front of a screen, watching these episodes back.

The final ebbs of Eren’s smile slip away. I may never see its like again. And I’m certain that one of his smiles will never be directed at me again. _Because of me._

Erwin’s baritone voice calls for us to resume filming.

The four finish their meal. I make automatic movements with the camera. No longer concerned with the quality of the footage. Or anything really, other than the fact that I fucked everything up.

All I know is that I need to fix things with Eren. Or at the very least, make things less broken.

 

I suppose I should start by telling the truth.

 

* * *

 

Erwin announces a break. Eren slides from his chair to hand around his stash of balsamic spheres and tiny squares of tart. Mike politely declines, having sampled plenty already while filming in the kitchen. Petra and Eren eat one sphere each, the latter throwing his head back and tossing it in while Petra giggles. Erwin struggles not to screw his face up having eaten three at once.

When Eren comes to me, he produces a fresh napkin from nowhere with the final piece of tart and a single sphere. He wordlessly places the offering in my unfurled palm and walks back towards Petra so quickly that I don’t think he catches my ‘thank you’. I desperately catch Petra’s eyes from across the room. She understands, returning a subtle nod, while shoving a manicured hand out towards Eren and saying, “actually Eren, I need Historia first.” _Thank you, Petra._

“Oh, okay.” The two women disappear upstairs. Jean and Mike are out on a smoking break. Eren looks around the room for somewhere to sit other than back at the dining table. This being Hange’s place, of course Eren is unsuccessful in finding a clear space to settle down. He hovers awkwardly by the table, hand slipping into his jean pocket for a phone that isn’t there. He probably wants to get in touch with that friend, Armin.

But phones aren’t permitted during filming. At least not usually.

 

“Hey, Eren.” I withdraw my personal mobile, offering it in the flat of my palm. Eren’s eyes go wide, then narrow.

“So you do have a phone.”

I hear the question Eren doesn’t ask: _So why didn’t you text me? I gave you my number._

 

I want to tell him there and then. How sorry I am for not texting. For slipping his number into the front of the complementary bible in the hotel, like it’s a dirty secret. And for all the other stuff too. That I’m sorry for everything I said in the park. I’m sorry that I couldn’t say the things someone as kind and honest as Eren deserves to hear. And for doubting him. I’m sorry for that most of all. Not just for thinking he could possibly be capable of hiding a relationship with Armin, but for doubting that Eren could  hold any serious feelings for me. That he could become so hurt by my actions.

“I’m sorry...” Piercing green eyes meet mine. I swallow the remainder of my pride. “For hurting you.” Eren stalks closer. “And for doubting you.” My voice chooses that moment to fail me. The last words escape as a rough whisper. But it doesn’t matter, because Eren is right in front of me. He has heard every word.

“You are?”

“Yes. I don't expect your forgiveness. But... I really don't want to not hear from you again. After.”

"After. Eren echoes, mouth hanging open.

"Yes, after." And he smiles. It is a small smile but I find that I don’t need anything more right now.

I want to tell him more right now, but instead press my phone to Eren’s chest. “Go on. Call Armin.”

“OK. But we’re finishing this conversation later.” He plucks the phone from my limp fingers.

“Yes,” I say, meaning it, and Eren presses a chaste kiss to my cheek. I don’t need a mirror to know the heat is showing against my skin. He cracks a grin, an ear pressed to my phone.

“Until later then.”


End file.
